Category: English

Victor Sterling drank too much last night. In his drunken stupor, he slipped his family’s vintage heirloom bracelet onto my wrist. His eyes were rimmed red as he held me in a suffocating grip, murmuring her name over and over: “Serena, please don’t go…” I let him hold me. I even patted his back gently, coaxing him to sleep. The next morning, when Victor woke up and sobered, he stared at the bracelet on my wrist with visible annoyance. His voice was ice-cold. “Take it off. That doesn’t belong to you.” I obediently slipped it off and carefully placed it on the nightstand. “Don’t worry, Mr. Sterling. I know my place.” Of course I knew my place. After all, if I just endured this for one more month, my contract would expire. That five-million-dollar payout at the end of the term was exactly what I needed to save my fiancé, who was currently lying in an ICU bed. Victor was the kind of man whose deep-seated, aristocratic superiority bled through even when he was annoyed. He sat on the edge of the bed, massaging his temples. He didn’t even spare me a glance, his eyes locked solely on the bracelet I had just taken off. That bracelet was a ten-million-dollar antique, the engagement gift he had prepared for his first love, Serena. “Forget everything that happened last night.” His voice was hoarse, carrying an undeniable tone of command. I was half-kneeling on the rug, picking up his discarded suit jacket. Hearing this, I looked up and flashed the gentle, graceful smile I had practiced in the mirror a thousand times. “Don’t worry, Mr. Sterling. You went straight to sleep the moment you got back. Nothing happened, and you didn’t say a word.” This was exactly why he was so satisfied with me. I was sensible, obedient. I didn’t listen to things I shouldn’t hear, and I didn’t remember things I shouldn’t remember. Victor’s expression softened slightly. He stood up and walked into the master bathroom. I let out a sigh of relief. I quickly stood up, placed the burning-hot, ten-million-dollar bracelet into its velvet box, and set it dead center on the nightstand where he would see it the second he walked out. Once that was done, I went downstairs to the kitchen to prep a hangover remedy. Just as I set the glass on the dining table, Victor’s executive assistant arrived with fresh clothes—and a piece of news. “Mr. Sterling, Ms. Serena’s flight back to New York is booked. She lands on the 5th of next month.” Victor, who was in the middle of buttoning his cuffs, froze. The usual cold, hard lines of his face instantly melted, replaced by a fleeting, barely detectable panic. “The 5th… That’s less than a month away.” He muttered to himself, then turned to look at me. His gaze suddenly became complex and critical. I knew exactly what he was thinking. The real deal was coming back. It was time for the cheap knockoff to exit the stage. For the past five years, I had followed his instructions to the letter. I wore the plain, pastel dresses Serena liked. I kept my hair long, straight, and black just like hers. I even practiced curving my lips to match the exact angle of her smile. You could say I was Serena’s most flawless shadow. But shadows can never survive in the light. “Harper,” Victor began, his tone dripping with a charitable, condescending chill. “Move out to the condo in Jersey this month. Don’t hover around me unless absolutely necessary.” “Yes, Mr. Sterling.” I agreed without a second of hesitation. My response was so fast and painless that it actually made him frown. “Also. When the contract ends, I never want to see your face in New York again.” “Understood. I will disappear without a trace. I absolutely won’t cause any trouble for you or Ms. Serena.” I pushed the hangover drink toward him, thoughtfully checking the temperature against the glass. “It’s the perfect temperature. Drink this before you head to the office; it’ll settle your stomach.” Victor stared at my submissive demeanor, looking almost uncomfortable. In his mind, I was supposed to cry. I was supposed to throw a fit, demand answers, and beg him not to throw me away. But I didn’t. Not only did I not cry, but I was practically doing mental cartwheels. The 5th of next month. That was the exact day my five-year contract with Victor expired. Once that five-million-dollar final payment hit my bank account, I’d never have to wait on this moody, arrogant billionaire ever again. Victor drank the remedy. Before walking out the door, he tossed a sleek credit card onto the table. “Go buy yourself some decent clothes over the next few days. I’m taking you to a party this weekend. It’ll be your last one.” He paused, his eyes sweeping over me with a hint of mockery. “Don’t embarrass me, and wipe that pathetic, subservient look off your face. Serena never acted like a servant.” I picked up the card with both hands, my eyes curving into a bright smile. “Thank you, Mr. Sterling. I’ll do my best to learn.” As long as the money cleared, forget acting like Serena—I’d put on a Batman suit and fight crime if he paid me enough. The “party” Victor mentioned was a gathering of his elite, trust-fund buddies. The venue was The Apex, Manhattan’s most exclusive, money-burning VIP lounge. When I pushed open the private room doors, arm-in-arm with Victor and wearing my brand-new designer white gown, the room went dead silent for a split second. Then, the raucous cheering erupted. “Whoa, Vic brought the missus?” “What missus? That’s Harper. Our little Harper.” “Gotta admit, dressed up like that, she’s a dead ringer for Serena. A solid nine out of ten. No wonder Vic couldn’t control himself and kept her around for five years.” The one running his mouth was Carter, Victor’s childhood best friend, and the guy who despised me the most. In his eyes, I was a gold digger who sold her dignity for a paycheck. I was just a toy to fill the gap while Victor waited for his true love. Victor didn’t defend me. He just led me to the center booth. I expertly picked up a bottle of vintage liquor and began pouring drinks for the wealthy heirs around the table, keeping my posture as low and submissive as possible. “So, Harper, word on the street is Serena is coming back. What are your plans?” Carter swirled his glass of bourbon, staring at me like he was watching a circus act. All eyes in the VIP room zeroed in on me. These guys lived for this kind of drama—the pathetic stand-in getting forced out by the true love, weeping and begging for scraps. My hand was perfectly steady. The amber liquid flowed into the glass without a single drop spilling. “That is entirely up to Mr. Sterling. I will follow his arrangements.” Carter let out a sharp scoff. “Stop pretending. You’re probably cursing us all out in your head, aren’t you? Five years with Vic, enjoying all this wealth and luxury… you really willing to just walk away?” He suddenly reached out, twirling a lock of my hair around his finger, his tone sleazy. “How about this? When Vic tosses you out, come be with me. I might not be as loaded as him, but I can easily throw you a hundred grand a month for pocket money.” The room erupted in mocking laughter. Victor leaned back against the leather sofa, a cigarette pinched between his fingers. His face was obscured by the smoke, but he made no move to stop Carter. He was enjoying this. He loved the intoxicating feeling of having someone entirely dependent on him, entirely under his control. I sneered internally, but on the outside, I put on a look of sheer panic. I instinctively shrank back, pressing myself closer to Victor’s side. “Please don’t joke like that, Carter.” Victor seemed immensely pleased by my display of dependency. Finally showing some mercy, he swatted Carter’s hand away. “Alright, knock it off. Don’t scare her.” He tapped his cigarette ash into the tray, his voice flat. “She’s been with me for five years, and she’s done her job well. We’ll part on good terms. Let’s not make it ugly.” Carter shrugged. “Whatever you say, man. You’re always too soft on your old flings. But hey, Harper, a little self-awareness goes a long way. Take your payout and disappear. Don’t get any delusional ideas about clinging to him.” I nodded obediently. “I understand perfectly.” Halfway through the night, Victor stepped out to take a phone call. I didn’t even have to guess. It was definitely about Serena. The moment he left, the vibe in the room shifted. Carter ordered me around, making me peel grapes for him, and even purposely ashed his cigar onto the hem of my pristine white dress. I didn’t say a word. I just sat there and took it. It wasn’t that I didn’t have a backbone. It was that Victor bought this dress with his card. If it got ruined, I didn’t have to pay for it. More importantly, every single ounce of humiliation I swallowed right now was fueling my sprint toward that five-million-dollar finish line. Just then, my phone buzzed in my clutch. It was a text from the hospital. [Ms. Harper, Ethan’s condition has become highly unstable. His vitals are dropping. We need to prepare the funds for his second surgery immediately, along with the imported anti-rejection medications. The current deficit is roughly $500,000.] Five hundred thousand dollars. And that was just the current gap. Combine that with the medical debt I already owed, plus the astronomical rehabilitation costs required to guarantee he woke up safely… That five million dollars—I couldn’t afford to lose a single cent. I stared at my phone screen, my fingers tightening their grip. “What are you looking at? Vic’s not even here, and you’re not even trying to entertain us?” Carter kicked me lightly in the calf, looking annoyed. I put my phone away and looked up at Carter. For a split second, I didn’t manage to mask the icy hostility in my eyes. Carter froze. “What the hell is that look for?” But in the blink of an eye, I morphed back into the timid, submissive girl. “It’s nothing. I was just wondering when Mr. Sterling would be back.” Right on cue, the heavy doors pushed open. Victor strode in. His face was dark, carrying an aura of aggressive irritation. “We’re leaving.” He grabbed me by the arm and yanked me up. His grip was so harsh it made my wrist ache. “Mr. Sterling, what’s wrong?” The moment we got into his sports car, Victor slammed the gas pedal to the floor. The car shot down the Manhattan streets like a bullet. “Serena’s flight got moved up. She lands tomorrow.” He gritted his teeth, his voice tight. “You are moving out tonight.” When Victor was in a rush, he had zero patience for anything. He sped all the way back to his Upper East Side penthouse. He didn’t even step inside. He just sat in the driver’s seat, glaring at me coldly. “Go upstairs and pack your things. You are only allowed to take what belongs to you. Do not touch a single thing I bought for you.” “You have one hour.” This kind of heartless, unreasonable demand would have shattered the heart of any woman who had spent five years with him. But to me? It felt like total liberation. “Understood, Mr. Sterling. I’ll be quick.” I stepped out of the car, my footsteps so light I had to physically restrain myself from skipping to the elevator. This penthouse was luxurious, but to me, it was nothing but a suffocating prison. Every corner of this place was meticulously designed to echo Serena’s preferences, and I was just the live-in maid hired to maintain her ghost. I walked into the bedroom and pulled out a battered, cheap suitcase I had brought with me five years ago. I opened the massive walk-in closet. It was stuffed with designer clothes, diamond jewelry, and luxury handbags that Victor had bought me. I didn’t touch a single one of them. I only packed the cheap, faded clothes I had arrived in, a frayed toiletry bag, and from a hidden compartment in the nightstand, a slightly yellowed photograph. In the photo, Ethan was wearing a crisp white button-down. His smile was as warm as a spring breeze, and he was holding two ice cream cones. We had taken it during our college days. Back then, the horrific car crash hadn’t happened yet, and I hadn’t sold my soul to Victor Sterling to pay for his life support. Looking at the photo, the intense nausea that Victor and Carter had stirred up in my stomach finally began to dissipate. “Just a little longer, Ethan. It’s almost over.” I whispered softly, carefully tucking the photo into my worn-out wallet. It took me less than thirty minutes to pack. When I got downstairs, Victor was standing in the living room, smoking a cigarette. Several crushed butts were already scattered by his feet. When he saw the pathetic, battered suitcase in my hand, he froze, his brows knitting tightly together. “That’s it?” “Yes. Everything else was purchased by you. It wouldn’t be appropriate for me to take it.” I stood in the entryway and placed the penthouse keys on the console table. My attitude was so flawlessly respectful and professional that he couldn’t pick out a single flaw. Victor seemed inexplicably irritated. My clean, unhesitating departure gave him the frustrating sensation of punching a pillow. “There’s a hundred thousand dollars on this card. Consider it severance.” He tossed another black credit card onto the table. I didn’t reach for it. “That won’t be necessary, Mr. Sterling. The contract clearly states I only receive the final tail-end payment upon completion. This hundred thousand isn’t covered by our agreement. I can’t accept it.” I don’t take risks with small change. I was here for the five million dollars written in black and white on my contract. What if I took this hundred grand, and he used it as an excuse to claim I breached the contract and withheld my final five million? When it came to making money, I was as meticulous as a Wall Street auditor. Victor’s face darkened. “I gave it to you, so take it! Stop talking back!” “I really don’t need it, Mr. Sterling. I’m not desperate for money.” I lied smoothly, pushing the card back toward him. Victor let out a cold, angry laugh. “Not desperate for money? If you weren’t desperate for money, would you have sold yourself as a stand-in for five years? Harper, don’t act like a saint when you’re anything but.” I kept my head down, refusing to argue. “Fine. If you want to play the noble martyr, then get the hell out.” He pointed at the front door. I felt like I had just received a gubernatorial pardon. I grabbed my suitcase handle and marched toward the exit. Just as I stepped out the door, Victor’s dark, brooding voice echoed from behind me. “Harper. Once you walk out that door, there’s no turning back. Don’t think I’ll come crawling after you to coax you back like before.” Coax me? When had he ever coaxed me? Oh, right. I remembered. When I first moved in, I was so overwhelmed by his volatile, toxic mood swings that I used to cry secretly in the bathroom. He found my crying annoying. He tossed a designer handbag at me and snapped, “Stop crying. It’s giving me a headache.” That wasn’t coaxing. That was paying for peace and quiet. I stopped walking, but I didn’t turn around. I just straightened my spine. “Don’t worry, Mr. Sterling. I will absolutely never look back.” I dragged my suitcase out of the luxury high-rise, but I didn’t head to the condo in Jersey. Instead, I hailed a cab and went straight to the downtown hospital. Outside the ICU in the dead of night, it was so quiet I could only hear the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitors. I pressed my hands against the glass window, staring greedily at the man lying inside. Five years. Ethan had lost so much weight. His face was deathly pale, and his body was hooked up to countless tubes and machines. But he was still alive. As long as he was alive, there was hope. The Head Nurse walked by, saw me, and let out a soft sigh as she approached. “Ms. Harper, you’re here this late?” “Yeah. Just wanted to see him.” “Mr. Ethan’s condition has been deteriorating over the last two days. The doctors said if we don’t perform the second surgery immediately, I’m afraid…” “I know.” I turned around and looked at the nurse. My eyes had never been more resolute. “I have the money ready. Next month, on the 5th. We operate exactly on schedule.” Life after leaving Victor was incredibly fulfilling. I rented a cheap motel room. Every day, besides visiting Ethan at the hospital, I stared at the calendar, counting down the hours. Just three days left until the contract expired. As long as I survived these three days, and Victor wired the money as agreed, I would be completely, totally free. However, life never goes exactly as planned. On the night before the deadline, I got a call from Victor. “Where are you?” His voice sounded slightly drunk. The background noise was chaotic, like he was at a club. “Mr. Sterling, I’ve already moved out,” I reminded him calmly. “I asked where the hell you are!” he roared. “Serena wants to see you.” My heart plummeted. Serena wanted to see me? The original first love wanting to meet the cheap stand-in? What good could possibly come of that? “Mr. Sterling, this violates our agreement…” “Shut up! Get your ass to The Apex in thirty minutes, or you can kiss your final payout goodbye!” The line went dead. I gripped my phone, my knuckles turning white. He was using my five million dollars to threaten me. That money was Ethan’s life. I took a deep breath, changed into the pale blue dress that Serena supposedly loved most, and took a cab to The Apex. The moment I pushed the VIP room doors open, my eyes landed on the woman sitting next to Victor. She was stunning. She possessed a natural, effortless elegance and confidence that I could never replicate, even after five years of trying. However, she was wearing a fiery, bold red dress. It was completely different from the plain, demure, “pure” aesthetic I had been forced to adopt. It seemed Victor had only forced me into pale colors because that was how he remembered her from their youth. The real Serena had long since outgrown that phase. “So you’re Harper?” Serena looked me up and down, her eyes carrying three parts curiosity and seven parts absolute disdain. “You do look a little bit like the old me.” I stood by the door, neither haughty nor humble. “Good evening, Ms. Serena.” Victor held a glass of whiskey, his gaze shifting back and forth between me and Serena, clearly anticipating a good show. “Vic, I heard she’s been with you for five years?” Serena looped her arm through Victor’s, laughing flirtatiously. “How much did you spend to keep such an obedient little pet?” Victor glanced at me dismissively. “Not much. She was just a plaything to pass the time.” Plaything. The word pierced my ears like a needle. But my face maintained a perfect, polite smile, not showing a single trace of humiliation. “I heard you’re willing to do absolutely anything for money?” Serena suddenly stood up and walked over to me, holding a glass of red wine. “So, if I told you to get on your knees, apologize to me, and admit you’re just a shameless, pathetic knockoff… would you do it?” The VIP room went dead silent. Everyone was staring at me, waiting to see what I would do. Victor frowned. He seemed to think Serena was crossing a line, but he didn’t say a word to stop her. He was waiting. He was waiting for me to beg him for help. I looked at Victor, then down at the glass of red wine teetering dangerously in Serena’s hand. For five million dollars. For Ethan’s life. What was my dignity worth? What were my knees worth? I slowly bent my legs, letting my knees sink toward the carpet, inch by inch. Victor’s pupils contracted violently. He abruptly stood up, looking like he wanted to yell something. Thud. My knees hit the floor with a muffled sound. “I am so sorry, Ms. Serena.” I looked up, meeting Serena’s eyes directly. My tone was as calm as if I were discussing the weather. “I am just a cheap knockoff. I shouldn’t have tried to imitate you and cause you discomfort.” Serena froze. She clearly hadn’t expected me to kneel so effortlessly, without a single shred of psychological resistance. The twisted thrill of humiliating me hadn’t even peaked before it was completely suffocated by my robotic, business-like attitude. “You…” Serena was furious. She raised her hand, ready to splash the entire glass of red wine directly into my face. “Enough!” Victor suddenly lunged forward and grabbed Serena’s wrist. The wine sloshed out of the glass, splashing onto the floor and staining the hem of my dress. “Vic?” Serena looked at him in total disbelief. Victor’s face was livid. He stared down at me, his chest heaving with explosive breaths. “Harper, you…” He looked like he wanted to scream at me, but he didn’t even know what to say. Yell at me for having no spine? Yell at me for having no self-respect? “Mr. Sterling, do you have any other instructions?” I remained kneeling, looking up at him. “If not, may I leave now?” “Get out! Get the hell out of here!” Victor roared, violently hurling his whiskey glass against the wall, shattering it into a hundred pieces. I stood up smoothly, brushed the dust off my knees, and gave him and Serena a slight, respectful bow. “I wish Mr. Sterling and Ms. Serena a lifetime of happiness.” With that, I turned on my heel and walked out, without a single ounce of hesitation.

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After seven years of caring for my severely paralyzed mother, she finally passed away, a look of peace on her face. But three days after her death, my brother—who had vanished for seven years—suddenly appeared, clutching a will. “Mom’s will makes it perfectly clear. As her son, I inherit everything she owned.” The relatives were quick to react, immediately taking his side. “The money belonged to your mother. She can leave it to whoever she wants. As her children, you just have to respect her wishes.” “You’re the older sister; it’s your duty to step aside for your brother. If it were me, I’d be too ashamed to fight my own flesh and blood over an inheritance.” I covered my face with my hands, my shoulders shaking uncontrollably. Everyone thought I was sobbing in absolute devastation. But only I knew the truth: my idiot brother was completely, utterly screwed. … When Kyle showed up, I was just about to lower my mother’s urn into the freshly dug grave. He ran out of the crowd, crying hysterically, forcefully shoved me aside, and threw his arms around the urn, wailing like a banshee. “Mom! How could you just leave us like this?! I didn’t even get to see you one last time!” “Chloe, you heartless bitch! Mom was perfectly fine when I left! It’s only been a few years, and you actually managed to kill her!” “Give me my mother back!” The relatives began whispering and murmuring among themselves. Even I felt a bit dazed for a second. The last time I had seen Kyle was seven years ago. I had just graduated from college and landed a fantastic job at a Fortune 500 company. My life was finally on an upward trajectory when I suddenly got a call from Kyle. “Chloe, you need to come home right now! Mom was in a terrible car accident, she’s in the ICU!” My head spun. I bought a red-eye flight and rushed home. Our dad died when we were young. My mom raised Kyle and me all by herself. She hadn’t enjoyed a single day of comfort in her life, and now this happened. But what I couldn’t accept was what happened next. While I was distracted speaking with the surgeons about her emergency procedures, Kyle secretly grabbed my mom’s phone, her ID, and her debit cards, ran back to our house, and drained every single cent of our family’s savings. I didn’t have any money of my own back then. To scrape together enough to cover Mom’s immediate medical bills, I borrowed from everyone I possibly could. The crushing debt almost drove me to jump off a bridge. After that, I personally cared for her, spoon-feeding and bathing her for seven grueling years, until the day she died. Seeing Kyle now, I wanted nothing more than to flay him alive. “You son of a bitch. How do you even have the nerve to show your face?” “When Mom was fighting for her life in the hospital, you stole all her money and ran! When she was paralyzed in bed, unable to move, where the hell were you?!” “Now that she’s dead, you pop up playing the devoted son?! I’ll beat you to death, you shameless piece of trash!” Kyle yelled at the top of his lungs: “Stop bringing up irrelevant garbage! Mom only has one son! If I wasn’t here to handle her funeral rites, her soul would never rest in peace!” “If I didn’t show up, who knows? You probably would have secretly hoarded all of Mom’s inheritance for yourself!” “What inheritance?” While I was momentarily stunned, Kyle pulled a piece of standard printer paper from his jacket. He held it up high for the entire crowd to see. “Aunt Brenda, Uncle Dave, Aunt Susan—look closely! This is a will, written and signed by my mother’s own hand.” “It states very clearly: upon her death, her entire estate goes exclusively to her son, Kyle.” “Bullshit! Mom couldn’t even read or write!” I fired back. “She was paralyzed for seven years! I handled all her meals, her bathing, everything! Where exactly did she go to draft a will?!” Kyle smirked smugly. “Mom knew this day would come. She set everything up seven years ago. Uncle Dave can back me up.” I looked at my uncle in absolute disbelief. Just this morning, he had patted my shoulder, tears in his eyes. “Your mother had a hard life, Chloe. Thank god she had a daughter like you to take care of her so well. You didn’t let her suffer.” Uncle Dave avoided my gaze, looking shifty. “Yeah… that did happen. When your mom was first brought to the hospital, she was still lucid. She drafted the will right in front of me. I helped her sit up so she could sign it.” “Chloe, you’re a good kid. We all see that.” “But the money was your mother’s. She can give it to whoever she wants. As her children, you just have to respect her wishes.” It was easy for him to say. My uncle hadn’t worked a single honest day in his life; he survived entirely by leeching off his sisters. That old parasite was obviously going to take the side of the younger parasite, Kyle. Aunt Brenda immediately chimed in. “I’m an older sister too. It’s an older sister’s duty to step aside and provide for her younger brother. If I were you, I’d be too ashamed to fight my own flesh and blood over an inheritance.” She even forced a few fake sobs. “These past few years, your mom cried to me so often because she missed her son. Well, it’s finally over. You came back, Kyle. She can rest in peace now.” “You’re the only male heir left in the family line, Kyle. Don’t worry, your aunt is 100% on your side.” I stood frozen in place, utterly paralyzed. When the hospital was threatening to cut off her care because I couldn’t pay the bills, I didn’t cry. When my friends were landing amazing careers, while I could only take odd temp jobs so I had time to rush home and change my mom’s adult diapers, I didn’t cry. When I was sick and in agonizing pain, rolling around in bed but refusing to go to the doctor to save money, I didn’t cry. When I was drowning in debt and loan sharks threw red paint on our front door, I didn’t cry. Seven years. Seven full, grueling years. I took care of my mother for seven years. I spoon-fed her every meal, cleaned up her waste, and starved myself just to buy her medication. And yet, behind my back, she left absolutely everything to my brother. I doubled over in pain, my entire body shaking. The tears finally broke free, pouring out uncontrollably. Kyle clicked his tongue in annoyance, tossing his hair. “Alright, enough! Who are you crying for?!” “A son inheriting the property is the natural order of things. Hurry up and hand over the house keys. I have real estate agents waiting to view the property.” Aunt Brenda was startled. “You’re selling the house?!” “Then where is your sister going to live?” Kyle scoffed. “Why the hell should I care where she lives? It’s my house, I can sell it if I want.” “She lived there rent-free for seven years. I’m already doing her a massive favor by not charging her back-rent.” “My girlfriend is pregnant, and her family is pushing us to get married. If I don’t sell the house, how am I supposed to afford a new one for us?” “Unless… you guys are volunteering to lend me some cash?” The moment they heard the word “lend,” every single relative started waving their hands frantically. “I don’t have any money! Your cousin’s wedding wiped out our savings.” “All my cash is tied up in the stock market. If I had it, I’d definitely lend it to you.” … Hearing this, I slowly raised my head and wiped away my tears. “You want the estate, right? Fine. You can have it all.” Kyle grinned broadly. “Now that’s more like it.” I laid out my condition: “If you want me to formally waive my right to contest the inheritance, you have to sign an agreement with me right now. From this moment on, absolutely everything belonging to this family is yours, and it has absolutely nothing to do with me.” “And whether you live or die in the future, you are strictly forbidden from coming to me for help.” Kyle looked me up and down with pure disdain. “Look at you. You don’t even have a real job. Once I sell the house, you’ll literally be sleeping on the streets. I’m the one who should be worried about you clinging to me for cash!” “I’ll sign it. Hurry up and get the papers!” I borrowed a pen and paper from the funeral home staff and quickly drafted the document. Aunt Brenda leaned in close and whispered, “Silly girl, that’s your own biological brother. If you cut him off completely, aren’t you afraid your dad’s ghost will come back to haunt you?” I looked at her with a dead, icy smile. “When Mom’s spirit visits me on the seventh day after her death, I’ll be sure to ask her whose ghost is going to haunt the person who ripped the gold wedding band off my grandmother’s finger the second she stopped breathing. Let’s see who should be afraid of karma.” Aunt Brenda’s face drained of color. She grabbed her hand and scurried away. After Kyle signed the paper, I folded the agreement carefully and put it in my purse. I couldn’t help it—I covered my face, my shoulders shaking violently. He clicked his tongue impatiently. “Crying is useless. The agreement is signed. From now on, this family has nothing to do with you, and you won’t get a single red cent.” “Hurry up and pack your trash. I’m coming to claim the house tomorrow.” With that, he rallied all the relatives to go grab lunch at a nearby restaurant. It wasn’t until they were completely out of sight that I finally dared to laugh out loud. Chapter 2 Oh, my sweet, idiotic brother. What “estate” did he think was left? He hadn’t been home in seven years; he had no idea. Anything of value in that house had been sold years ago to pay for Mom’s medical bills. The house itself had a massive second mortgage on it, and I was drowning in an ocean of external debt, constantly stressing over how to survive. And now, he timed his return perfectly to catch the falling anvil. I was absolutely thrilled. I left the funeral home and took a cab straight to a nice hotel. The old house was filled with memories of my mother, and honestly, I couldn’t stomach looking at it right now. After taking a long, hot bath, I wrapped myself tightly in the thick hotel comforter. For the first time in seven years, I didn’t have to jolt awake at 3:00 AM to change my mom’s diaper or sponge-bathe her. I slept so deeply it felt like a coma. When I finally woke up, my phone was blowing up like a ticking time bomb. On the other end of the line, Kyle’s voice was a chaotic mix of uncontrollable smugness and desperate impatience. “Chloe, where the hell are you?!” “Get back to the old house right now and hand over the keys! Don’t you dare touch any of Mom’s stuff! I’m coming over to take inventory immediately.” “I’m warning you, if you try to hide anything, and I find out, I will make your life a living hell.” I gripped my phone, staring at the pristine hotel ceiling, and suddenly broke into a huge smile. “Alright.” “I’ll wait for you. I’ll even bring some people over to help you with the inventory.” I hung up the phone and immediately dialed the number of my biggest creditor. “If you want your money, bring your guys to my house right now. If you’re late, the opportunity is gone.” I heard heavy breathing on the other end, mixed with a few muffled curses and people scrambling in the background. “Fuck yeah. Wait right there, we’re on our way! If you’re trying to play us…” “Bring all the promissory notes and loan contracts,” I added, then hung up. I checked out of the hotel, hailed a cab, and headed back to the old house—the house where I had struggled and suffocated for seven years, the house I currently wanted to burn to the ground. Just as I pulled up, a dirty, beat-up black van slammed on its brakes, arriving at the exact same moment. Three men stepped out of the van. The leader was a massive guy with a shaved head, eyes sharp as knives, and aggressive tattoos crawling up his neck. We exchanged a single glance. No words were spoken. With a silent, mutual understanding, we walked up the stairs together. The front door of the old house was slightly ajar. The lock had been smashed. Kyle’s voice drifted out from inside. “This place is a bit old, but if I clean it up, I can rent it out for a decent chunk of change.” “Just wait here, I’ll have her clear out her garbage right now.” I pushed the door open. Kyle was standing in the center of the living room, a small notepad in his hand, jotting things down. When he turned and saw the three terrifying bruisers standing behind me, he froze for a second. Then, a look of profound, arrogant mockery spread across his face. “I knew you wouldn’t just hand it over peacefully. Yesterday was all just an act, huh?” “You didn’t dare say a word in front of the family, and now you bring a bunch of thugs here to play tough?” He waved the photocopied will in his hand. “Read it and weep. This is notarized! It’s a legally binding document! Everything in this house now belongs to me, Kyle! Who do you think you’re scaring with a few street punks? Get the hell out of my house!” I smiled. This really was my wonderful brother. I was worried he might try to deny it! What more was there to say? “The law is the ultimate authority.” I said, stepping aside. “You guys heard him, right? He is the legal owner of this house. Everything belongs to him. Whatever business you have, take it up with him.” The bald guy completely ignored Kyle’s yelling. He pulled a thick stack of loan contracts from his leather bag. “Kid, you’ve got a big mouth. Since you own everything here, I assume that means you’re ready to settle the debts attached to it?” Kyle stumbled back half a step, terrified, but tried to maintain his tough guy act. “What debts?” “You’ve got the wrong guy. I don’t owe you anything.” “Get out of here right now! You’re trespassing on private property! I’ll call the cops!” The bald guy let out a menacing, predatory laugh. “Be my guest. Call ’em right now. I’d love to see if the cops arrest me, or arrest you.” “Paying debts is the law of the land! I brought the signed contracts right here. You dare try to deny it?!” He suddenly raised his voice, booming like thunder. “Seven years ago, your mother used this house as collateral to borrow $20,000 from me. With interest compounding over the years, the total balance today is exactly $720,000.” “It’s all right here in black and white, stamped with her red thumbprint. The contract clearly states that if she can’t pay the cash, the house is forfeited to cover the debt. And now you’re jumping up and down claiming you’re the sole heir to her estate?” The bald guy stepped forward, his spit practically hitting Kyle’s deathly pale face. “Well then, shouldn’t you be inheriting this debt too?” The color drained entirely from Kyle’s face, leaving him as white as a sheet. His eyes bulged out of his head. He looked at the terrifying stack of loan contracts, then at the bald guy, and finally, he whipped his head around to glare at me. His eyes were filled with absolute, terrified disbelief and fury. “No! This is impossible!” “This is the debt her mother owes! It has nothing to do with me! Go after her!” he screamed hysterically, his trembling finger pointing directly at me. I laughed and pulled out the agreement we had signed in front of our mother’s urn yesterday. “Didn’t we agree yesterday? Everything in this family is inherited by you, and it has absolutely nothing to do with me.” “We are blood siblings, after all! My mom is your mom! A son inheriting the estate is the natural order of things. All our relatives can testify to that.” “My dear, sweet brother, if you hadn’t come back waving that will around, I honestly wouldn’t have known where to find you to give you all of this.” I picked up the will that had fallen to the floor and gently placed it on the coffee table. I tapped the words: “…shall be inherited entirely by my son, Kyle.” “As children, we have to respect Mom’s wishes. She said you inherit everything, so it’s all yours.” “This old house, the few pieces of cheap furniture she left behind, and of course… all the outstanding debts.” “NOOOOO!!!” Kyle let out an inhuman, guttural howl. The bald guy was already out of patience. He waved his hand. The two massive thugs behind him lunged forward like they were grabbing a helpless chicken. They instantly pinned Kyle’s arms behind his back and slammed his face into the wall. “Chloe! You set me up! You set a fucking trap for me!” He struggled uselessly, cursing and screaming, his voice cracking with tears and absolute despair. I looked at the bald guy. “We are completely settled. Whatever happens next is between you and him.” Then, I turned and walked out of the apartment. Taking a deep breath of the outside air, the crushing burden I had carried on my shoulders for seven years finally fell away. The news of Kyle being cornered and beaten by loan sharks in the old house sprouted wings and flew instantly across the family group chat. Aunt Brenda was absolutely heartbroken. She rallied all the relatives to go “save” him. She also launched a vicious attack on me in the group chat. “Chloe, how could you be so evil?!” “Kyle is your biological brother! He’s the only male bloodline your father left behind! How could you just stand by and watch him get beaten like that?!” “If your parents knew about this, they’d be rolling in their graves!” I casually typed a reply: “If my dad knew his own sister just stood by and watched her nephew get beaten, he’d be rolling in his grave.” “Why don’t you do a good deed and pay off the debt for him?” Kyle immediately seized the opportunity, spamming the chat with “Thank you, Aunt Brenda!” and “Aunt Brenda, you’re the best!” He expertly hoisted Aunt Brenda onto a pedestal she couldn’t climb down from. Her son instantly chimed in: “If you dare pay a single cent of his debt, I am disowning you! You can just adopt him and let him be your son!” Seeing this, Aunt Brenda quickly backpedaled, stating that she couldn’t make financial decisions for her household and couldn’t help with the money. However, she was more than willing to discipline me, the “ungrateful daughter,” on behalf of my dead parents. “Regardless of everything, blood is thicker than water! You are the older sister! Now that your mom is gone, the eldest sister is like a mother! You have to take care of him! Look at the suffering he’s going through right now!” “As his aunt, watching this feels like a knife twisting in my heart!” I watched her performance with an emotionless expression. Aunt Brenda finally revealed her true objective. “Chloe, your aunt knows things haven’t been easy for you either. But right now, saving Kyle is the priority. I actually have a solution, it just depends on whether you’re willing to make a sacrifice for this family.” “The Director of my agency, Director Miller, has a son. He’s a very honest, well-behaved guy. It’s just that he had a severe fever when he was a kid, so his brain works a little slower than normal people. But he absolutely never causes trouble.” “The Miller family is loaded! They live in a massive mansion! They don’t mind your current financial situation at all. As long as you agree to marry him, you can name your price for the bridal price.” “You’d be marrying into a wealthy family, you’d save your brother, and you’d secure your own future! It’s a win-win-win situation!” The group chat exploded. Everyone started chiming in to support her. “Chloe, your aunt really found a great way out for you!” “Chloe, if you marry into high society, don’t forget about us poor relatives!” “Kyle, you better remember your sister’s sacrifice for the rest of your life.” I almost laughed out loud. His brain works a little slower? I bet if they “cured” him, he’d still be drooling on himself. This wasn’t setting me up on a date. This was blatantly trying to sell me off as a commodity so she could curry favor with her boss! I quickly shut down her beautiful fantasy. “Since the conditions are so amazing, please don’t waste it on an outsider like me. You should have your own daughter marry him! I wouldn’t dream of stealing such a prime opportunity from her.” “Or, even better, just have Kyle marry him! He marries into a rich family, pays off his debt—it’s the perfect solution! Just tell Director Miller not to be too strict on the gender requirement.” Kyle was absolutely furious. “Chloe, don’t be a stuck-up bitch!” “What the hell do you think you are right now?! No parents, drowning in debt! Who besides the Millers would even look twice at you?!”

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Five years after our divorce, I crossed paths with Silas Thorne in a tattoo parlor. He was there to touch up the color on his lover’s name, etched across his chest. I was there to mask old scars on my wrist. Years had passed, and for a long moment, we just stared at each other in silence. Silas was finally about to speak when a pair of small hands grabbed the hem of his shirt. “Daddy,” a little boy piped up, looking at me with undisguised curiosity. “Who is she?” A gust of wind off the ocean set the wind chimes on the porch clinking, breaking the heavy quiet. “I’m a customer,” I said, keeping my voice even. “Just like your dad. Here for a tattoo.” The little boy tilted his head. “Do you know my daddy?” “Leo.” Silas’s tone held a sharp edge of warning. The little boy puffed out his cheeks and fell silent. “No, I don’t,” I answered him anyway. “We’re strangers.” Silas’s expression darkened perceptibly. The shop owner tapped the counter, his gaze shifting between us. “Who’s first?” Silas had been leaning casually against the bar, but now he stood up straight, locking eyes with me. “Her.” He was wearing a white linen button-down paired with silver-gray dress pants. The top buttons were undone, revealing a good portion of his fit chest. Over his left pectoral, there was a tattoo in English script. It was partially obscured, but I knew exactly whose name it was. Even though that name hadn’t been written over Silas’s heart when we divorced. “First come, first served,” I said with polite formality. “This gentleman should go first.” Before Silas could reply, his phone vibrated on the counter. In a fleeting second, I saw the screen display “Wife.” He slammed his hand down on the phone to kill the screen, his first instinct to look at me. I simply turned and walked toward the lounge area. Behind me, I heard the boy’s excited query: “Was that Mommy?” Silas had a naturally cool voice, but he tended to lower his register when he was coaxing someone. It was soft and low now, blending with the cello music playing in the shop. I looked down, gently stirring my coffee, when a childish voice right beside my ear chirped, “Excuse me, ma’am.” I turned to find the little boy leaning over the armrest of my chair, watching me. He was fair-skinned and delicate-looking, with a scholarly air about him. He was truly adorable. So adorable that, even knowing whose child he was, I couldn’t bring myself to feel any resentment toward him. “I have to tell you, you look a lot like my mommy,” the boy said, whispering like he was sharing a massive secret. “She’s a super famous, super pretty movie star.” “Then you must look a lot like her.” The boy’s eyes lit up instantly, and he seemed about to climb into the chair with me, but a large hand pressed down on the top of his head. Silas patted the boy’s head. “Go wait in the car with Mr. Miller.” I raised an eyebrow and turned to see the middle-aged man standing behind Silas—someone who had been with him for years. Our eyes met, and he looked utterly shocked, with an undercurrent of awkwardness. “…Ms. Vance.” I nodded calmly, feeling a slight pang of nostalgia at the reunion. “Mr. Miller.” Silas scooped the boy up into his arms. As he stood, a silver gleam flashed from his wrist. It was his watch—a Patek Philippe, a style he never would have chosen in the past. On his ring finger, he wore a simple band—understated luxury. In our two years of marriage, Silas had never worn a wedding ring. True love really is true love. I took a sip of my coffee. All these years later, she still hadn’t become just another scar. Mr. Miller led the boy away, but Silas remained standing in front of my booth. “Chloe,” he said. It was the first time he’d used my first name. “How have you been all these years?” My coffee was half finished. I set the cup down. “Quite well, thank you for asking.” After a long silence, the shadow over me vanished as Silas followed the owner upstairs to the second floor. The cello music faded out, replaced by a slow, calm piano melody—much like my heart in that moment. The studio owner was an internationally renowned tattoo artist. His custom hand-drawn designs were nearly impossible to get, and he only accepted two clients a day. What a striking coincidence this was. My gaze scanned the designs lining the walls, stopping abruptly on the central piece. It depicted a red lip tattoo on the inside of a man’s thigh. The man in the design was sitting on the floor with one leg bent, wearing a black silk robe over black boxer briefs. A light pink lip print was seductively placed in that intimate area. The shape of the lips was beautiful, the lines clean, creating a dark, tension-filled contrast against the bronze skin. It was a mark left by a woman between a man’s legs. “Ms. Vance.” The owner’s voice behind me snapped me back to reality. “Right this way, please.” I turned to see Silas coming down the spiral staircase, the collar of his shirt now buttoned all the way up. I asked, “That fast?” “He’s being erratic. Decided not to get the touch-up after all.” The owner was clearly well-acquainted with Silas. He told me, “You go on upstairs.” Silas walked to the foot of the stairs and stopped. He jammed one hand into his pocket, his face expressionless. He stood over me, his gaze heavy and dark. We stared at each other in silence, but all I could think about was the last time we were intimate. After kissing, we got into bed, and I saw that red lip tattoo on his inner thigh. The clock on the wall chimed. I grabbed my bag and headed for the stairs. As I brushed past Silas, he gripped my wrist. He squeezed hard, his watch pressing painfully into my skin. “Chloe,” Silas said, his voice raspy. “Are you determined to pretend we’re strangers?” I didn’t struggle against his grip. I looked into his eyes, and there was absolutely nothing there. “Being able to pretend we’re strangers is me showing you respect.” He froze, then slowly let go of my hand, rubbing his fingertips together, his emotions seemingly cooling. “I know you still hate me.” Silas always had this knack for holding onto control, for never letting himself be embarrassed, no matter the situation. Just like back then, when the photo of him kissing Maya Sterling became the top trending topic, he faced me with this exact same composure. Except back then, I was hysterical. Faced with my husband’s calm demeanor, I looked like a raving lunatic. “You overestimate yourself.” I took a few steps up the stairs, my tone detached and cold. “Our relationship now isn’t significant enough for hate.” Silas seemed about to say something else, but I didn’t care. I turned and continued upstairs. The studio’s decor was highly unique—post-modern, empty, and quiet. The owner was at his computer confirming my tattoo design, and an assistant was preparing my skin. I took off the leather strap watch on my right wrist, looping it off in three rotations. The fleshy pink, yet gruesome, scar on my wrist was revealed. “This spot on the wrist hurts a lot,” the owner said, unfazed by the sight. “Just so you’re mentally prepared.” I smiled slightly. “It shouldn’t hurt as much as when I first slit it.” Two scars, one deeper than the other. When the numbing agent wore off, the owner confirmed the design with me one last time before transferring the stencil lines. It was a clear, clean-cut image of a blue butterfly with outstretched wings. “Because of the location, you might need a touch-up later on.” The owner put on a face mask. “But I guarantee I can mask the scar perfectly for you.” “Do all tattoos need touch-ups?” “No. In Silas’s case, it’s because of his skin type.” The owner didn’t hide the fact that he knew Silas. “Giving him a tattoo is actually kind of bad for my reputation.” I didn’t say anything. Having been in a real marriage with Silas for two years, I obviously knew he had a sensitive skin type. Back then, Silas didn’t really like me leaving marks on him during intimacy. Now, however, even though it was tedious enough to require frequent touch-ups, he still had Maya’s name tattooed over his heart. And he had Maya’s kiss mark tattooed on his inner thigh. As the first needle pricked my wrist, I inevitably flinched from the sharp pain, knitting my brows. The owner suddenly said, “Tell me the story behind your scar.” I was slightly taken aback, then laughed. “What, do tattoo artists have a hobby of collecting stories now?” In the court of public opinion today, Silas Thorne was seen as having won at life. In business, he had caught the right wind and expanded his territory, rising steadily. In love, he was perfectly matched with a popular starlet, living a picture-perfect, happy family life. “When I met Silas, he was already married to Maya Sterling,” the owner said. “And Maya looks incredibly similar to you.” I smiled, pulling a cigarette case from my bag. “Mind if I smoke?” The owner shook his head. I blew a smoke ring, thought for a moment, and said slowly, “I’m Silas’s ex-wife.” Silas and I met in college. He was a year ahead of me in the same major, and when he started his own company, he recruited me. While Advanced Tech is practically an industry giant now, at the very beginning, there were only two people. Silas had incredibly high standards. He was a prominent figure on campus, and countless people submitted resumes. “But I was the only one who stayed.” I squinted through the smoke. “Silas was extremely arrogant back then, walked around with his nose in the air. I was the very last person he interviewed.” Nobody held out much hope. I thought he was way too full of himself, and he spent the whole day interviewing, thinking everyone was an idiot—including me. “But that day, we talked all night, right until dawn. He stuck his hand out to me and said, ‘Pleasure doing business with you.’” “We shared the same philosophy, the same goals. Silas had massive ambition.” I tapped the ash from my cigarette. “And as it turns out, my ambition wasn’t small either.” For those first two years as Advanced Tech was getting off the ground, Silas and I rented an apartment off-campus. We pounded the pavement for business together, pulled in investments together. Silas was my mentor; he taught me everything about interpersonal skills and professional knowledge, without holding anything back. On the night of my twenty-second birthday, Silas and I pulled an all-nighter writing code. As dawn broke, he leaned against the windowsill and lit a cigarette. “He asked me,” I took a drag, “if I knew how to smoke.” I leaned in, curious, and immediately choked, tears streaming down my face. Silas started laughing, pulled me to him, pressed me against his chest, and kissed me. After the kiss ended, he asked me another question: Did I want to marry him? The vibration on my wrist stopped for a second. The owner said, “That’s an odd way to put it. Shouldn’t he have asked if you wanted to be his girlfriend?” I laughed, too, as if I were telling someone else’s story, watching it with the detached calm of a bystander. “I said yes. And that same day, we secured our very first round of investment.” “Riding the high wave of artificial intelligence, Advanced Tech soared, making a name for itself in the industry within just one short year.” “The day Advanced Tech’s core team was established, I was appointed Chief Operating Officer, and Silas took me home to meet his family.” “That was when I found out that the ‘Thorne’ in his name was that Thorne family—the shipping magnates.” The Thorne family made their fortune in shipping, and with three generations of accumulated wealth, they were a deeply entrenched, top-tier dynasty in the city. Naturally, the marriage was met with opposition, but since Silas had the courage to break away from the family and start his own business, he wasn’t about to be controlled regarding his marriage. “Silas fought them for two years. He was so stubborn his father beat him bad enough to put him in the hospital, and he didn’t cave even under immense pressure from countless relatives.” The ash fell silently from my cigarette. I watched it for a long moment before whispering, “When Advanced Tech got its first major round of financing, we got married.” “The wedding was simple, held on a small island that Silas later bought and put in my name, calling it ‘Haven Isle’.” The owner completely stopped outlining the tattoo. I nodded. “The very island we’re on now.” “Before the wedding, Silas signed an agreement. Putting aside the founding shares I had in Advanced Tech, he transferred every bit of liquid cash he could move into a trust for me.” “He said he wanted Advanced Tech to be my biggest support system.” “Back then, everyone marveled at how deeply Silas loved me. The financial entanglement was so deep that it left absolutely no room for a clean divorce.” “I used to think so, too.” My cigarette had mostly burned down. I extinguished it in the ashtray. “Until the first year of our marriage, when he personally selected Maya Sterling to be the face of Advanced Tech.” I had once asked Silas why he had chosen a completely obscure actress. “Don’t you think,” Silas had said back then, pointing at Maya’s massive billboard, “that she looks exactly like you did back in college?” “She captures eighty percent of your essence,” Silas had said, laughing before I could answer, “but her head is empty—a total airhead.” “Maya shot to fame very quickly.” The owner’s voice pulled me from my memories. “If I recall correctly, she became famous at nineteen.” “Yes.” I remembered something. “Less than a year after becoming the spokesperson, she was famous across the country.” “The day she won the Best Newcomer Award was Silas’s twenty-fifth birthday. We had plans for dinner.” “But I waited two hours, and he never came back. His phone was off, and I couldn’t reach Mr. Miller either.” “Until 8:00 PM, when a trending topic exploded out of nowhere: Maya Sterling caught in a passionate kiss with a mystery man.” “I clicked on it.” I looked up at the owner and smiled. “The mystery man was my husband.” They were kissing so passionately, pressing Maya up against the car front, making the car shake. Silas, usually so calm and arrogant, his first instinct upon spotting the camera was to press the slender Maya into his embrace. The video froze on the moment Silas stared at the camera with chillingly cold eyes. I masochistically watched it over and over again, my tears dripping onto the screen, landing right on Maya’s profile as she buried her face in Silas’s chest. It was almost identical to me in my college days. I found out the whole story. Maya had been harassed at a dinner party, and Silas had stepped in to help. From then on, Maya’s career skyrocketed, with countless top-tier industry resources being handed to her. When I slammed the documentation down in front of Silas, he didn’t offer an explanation, nor did he panic. He lit a cigarette and asked me, “What do you want to do?” “Shares, or a new project?” Silas had said. “We can negotiate anything, as long as we keep Maya out of it. It wasn’t easy for her to get to where she is today.” Silas’s calm attitude turned me into a lunatic. I had grown up without a father figure, so Silas represented a father figure substitute for me. He was my mentor first, and only later became my husband. During those years Advanced Tech was expanding, I was stretched thin and lacked experience; it was Silas who was behind me, teaching me step-by-step. To ensure I was secure in marrying him, he had built a solid wall around me using the most practical financial interests. I never imagined this wall would come crashing down, and in such a repulsive manner. “So you used all the connections you had to get Maya blacklisted,” the owner said. “But you failed.” “And the failure was particularly devastating,” I said, laughing at myself. “Back then, I actually still held onto a shred of hope, thinking it was just a fling, or that Silas had temporarily lost his mind.” “Don’t look at me like that.” I looked at the owner. “I was too young back then.” But Silas’s subsequent counterattack slapped me in the face. He used the most aggressive stance to suppress the trending topic and saved Maya’s career. A week later, the blacklisted Maya was spectacularly announced as the lead actress in a major director’s film. The first pink scar became the outline of the butterfly’s lower wing—so blue. The sharp pain in my wrist turned numb. I watched it for a long moment. “That’s how the first scar came about.” “Maya came to find me, using the exact same face I had in college, begging me to let her and Silas be together.” “You see, being loved can make someone stupid.” I sighed. “She actually said the one who isn’t loved is the real interloper.” So I launched a second wave of retaliation against Maya, hiring countless marketing accounts to expose her true colors as a home-wrecker. The atmosphere grew silent, with only the vibration of the tattoo gun. It had already been five years. All the love and hate had been worn down by the river of time, but this one thing— “Silas used Advanced Tech to threaten me.” My voice went rigid. “He used the blood and sweat we had poured into building it together to control me.” When Advanced Tech was first established, it was because of Silas’s inherent arrogance; he wasn’t willing to rely on his family’s support for everything. Advanced Tech went from nothing to something, and only he and I truly knew the hardships involved. I controlled the core product technical team, yet for Maya, Silas was willing to let Advanced Tech fall apart. “You only have Advanced Tech. But I still have the Thorne family empire.” Silas was still calm even during the ugliest parts of the fight. “Chloe, everything you’ve achieved today was given to you by me. Including Advanced Tech.” “I really was too young back then.” I don’t know how many times I had marveled at this. “When the trending topic about Silas and Maya checking into a hotel exploded, it was exactly on our first wedding anniversary.” “I saw that red lip tattoo on Silas’s inner thigh, and that’s when I got the first scar on my wrist.” When I woke up in the hospital, Silas was at my side, holding me in his arms with red eyes. For the first time, I chose to compromise. Because I was pregnant—three months along. “If that child had been able to be born back then, they would probably be about the same age as that boy just now.” I felt a slight trace of melancholy, laughing at myself, controlling the urge to take out another cigarette. I paused for a small moment before gathering the courage to continue. “Because of the pregnancy, I gave up on the divorce. This child could not only inherit Advanced Tech but would also have the Thorne empire.” “The marriage was already a total mess. Silas had destroyed all my fantasies about love, but this was indeed a safe bet with no chance of loss.” Silas had perfectly achieved a balance between the two women. I became magnanimous, swallowing the grievances and swallowing blood, handling my husband’s scandals with the popular female star over and over again. Maya’s career was going from strength to strength, and a group of crazy ‘shippers’ for her and Silas had even been born. Until the seventh month. On my way home from Advanced Tech, I was rear-ended by a car driven by a fanatical Maya Sterling ‘shipper’. “…The child was born prematurely. When I woke up,” I went silent for a long moment before producing a sound, “only I survived.”

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Chloe sat on the hard plastic chair in the hospital corridor, her fingers white-knuckling a diagnostic report. A few cold, clinical words jumped off the page, piercing her eyes like needles. “Primary Infertility.” The doctor’s voice still echoed in her ears. “With your specific condition, natural conception is highly unlikely. Essentially… you cannot have children.” Her boyfriend of five years, Mark Jenkins, sat right beside her. He hadn’t said a word. From the moment she was handed the report, he had been completely silent. Chloe’s heart sank, inch by inch, as if she were plunging into a frozen lake. She reached out, wanting to hold his hand. Mark recoiled violently, snatching his hand away as if she had burned him. His eyes darted away, refusing to look at her. “Mark…” Chloe’s voice was dry and raspy. “I… I need some space.” Mark stood up, dropped those words, and walked away without looking back. Watching his retreating figure, Chloe felt every ounce of strength drain from her body. For the next three days, Mark didn’t call. He didn’t text. Chloe locked herself in her apartment, feeling like a ghost abandoned by the entire world. Five years. From their college campus to entering the workforce, they had survived being broke together and built dreams for their future together. They had even put a deposit down on a wedding dress and were planning to go to the courthouse to get their marriage license next month. But a single piece of paper had shattered everything. On the fourth day, the doorbell rang. Chloe thought it was Mark. She forced her exhausted body up to open the door. Standing on the porch was Mark’s mother, Susan Jenkins. Her face was made of ice. The way she looked at Chloe was like inspecting a defective piece of merchandise. “Mrs. Jenkins,” Chloe said, her voice barely a whisper. Susan ignored her, marched straight into the living room, and slapped a cashier’s check down on the coffee table. “There’s ten thousand dollars here.” “My Mark cannot marry a hen that won’t lay eggs.” A loud ringing filled Chloe’s head. Everything went blank. “Mrs. Jenkins, Mark and I have been together for five years…” “Can five years of feelings put food on the table? Can feelings give the Jenkins family a grandson?” Susan’s voice was shrill and biting. “Chloe, I suggest you look in the mirror and know your place. Stop holding my son back.” “The Jenkins family line has been passed down from father to son for three generations. It is not ending with him!” Looking at Susan’s face, twisted with agitation, the last sliver of hope in Chloe’s heart died. She smiled, but it looked worse than crying. “So, this is what Mark wants?” Susan let out a huff, essentially confirming it. “He’s a man, he feels bad saying it to your face. As his mother, I have to be the bad guy.” “The engagement is off.” “Don’t ever contact Mark again.” Having completed her mission, Susan turned on her heel to leave. At the door, she paused and looked back at Chloe. Her eyes were filled with a sickening mix of pity and absolute disdain. “Oh, by the way. My son is getting married next month. The bride is the daughter of the City Planning Director. She’s already pregnant.” The door slammed shut. Chloe stood rooted to the spot, paralyzed. So, he didn’t “need some space.” He was using his silence to force her to let go. He was using her diagnosis as a convenient, righteous excuse to seamlessly transition to his new, wealthy, pregnant fiancée. Five years. It was all just a sick joke. Chloe slowly sank to the floor, buried her face in her knees, and finally broke down, sobbing uncontrollably. Six months is enough time for a city to change its skyline. It’s also enough time for a person’s heart to turn to ash. Chloe chopped off her long hair, transferred to a different department at work, and tried her hardest to look nothing like her past self. But the gaping hole in her chest refused to close. She still heard about Mark’s wedding through office gossip. Word was, it was an incredibly lavish affair. The bride had a visible baby bump and looked radiant. When Chloe heard this, she just kept typing at her keyboard, expressionless, as if listening to a story about strangers. Only she knew that she drank an entire bottle of Cabernet that night. Life became stagnant, like a dead pool of water—no ripples, no expectations. Until the newly appointed Department Director, Barbara Hayes, sought her out. Barbara was a woman in her late fifties, sharp, capable, and rarely smiled. Yet, that afternoon, she did something unprecedented. She called Chloe into her office and personally poured her a cup of coffee. “Chloe, you’ve been in this department for almost six months now. How are you settling in?” “It’s going well. Thank you for asking, Director,” Chloe replied respectfully. Barbara nodded, her eyes assessing Chloe, calculating something. “And… your personal life? Have you given that any thought?” Chloe’s chest tightened. Why was she suddenly asking about this? “I… haven’t really thought about it.” Barbara smiled, her tone suddenly turning conspiratorial. “I’ve heard about your situation.” All the color drained from Chloe’s face. Her infertility was a brand of shame. She never spoke of it to anyone. “Director…” “Don’t panic.” Barbara waved a hand, leaning forward slightly, lowering her voice. “Actually, the reason I called you in is because I want to set you up with someone.” Chloe was stunned. “My son, Arthur.” For the first time, a look of helplessness and embarrassment crossed Barbara’s usually stoic face. “He… he’s a great guy, really. It’s just… physically, he has a minor issue.” She paused, seemingly weighing her words. “Just like you, he can’t have children.” Chloe felt like a sledgehammer had slammed into her chest. She stared at Barbara, completely unsure how to react. “I know this reality is cruel for you young folks.” “But life has to go on, doesn’t it?” “You two are in the same unique boat. You understand each other’s pain. Neither of you has any right to judge the other.” “Just make do. Partner up and build a life together. It’s better than growing old alone.” Make do. Partner up. Those words stung Chloe’s nerves like needles. Had her life really been reduced to a state where she just had to “make do”? She wanted to refuse. But looking at Barbara’s eyes, filled with expectation and a hint of pleading, the word “no” got stuck in her throat. Maybe Barbara was right. What right did a barren woman have to demand romance or look forward to the future? Finding another defective person, forming a broken family, keeping each other warm, and licking each other’s wounds. Perhaps, this was the best ending she could hope for. “Director,” Chloe looked up, her eyes dead. “I… I’m willing to meet him.” Barbara let out a long sigh of relief, a heavy weight lifting from her shoulders. “Good, good girl. I knew you were sensible.” A week later, Chloe and Arthur met at a local coffee shop. He was taller and leaner than in his photo, wearing a crisp white button-down and jeans. He had a clean, sharp look. But there was an unshakable melancholy between his brows. Throughout the meeting, he barely spoke. Chloe did most of the talking; he just listened. At the very end, he looked at Chloe and asked one serious question. “Are you absolutely sure about this?” Chloe offered a self-deprecating smile. “Do people like us really have a choice?” Arthur fell silent. After a long moment, he nodded. “Alright. Then let’s… get married.” No proposal. No ring. Not even an “I like you.” From the very beginning, their union was nothing more than an unspoken agreement to “make do.” A month later, they went to the courthouse. The reception was painfully simple—just a dinner at a restaurant with close relatives from both sides. At the dinner table, Chloe spotted Susan Jenkins. Susan had tagged along with a distant relative of Arthur’s, staring at Chloe with undisguised schadenfreude. “Well, if it isn’t Chloe! Married again so soon? I hear this one… is firing blanks too? Oh my, you two really are a match made in heaven!” Her shrill, vicious words plunged the entire table into a suffocating, awkward silence. Chloe’s hand, gripping her fork, trembled violently. Just then, a large, warm hand covered hers. It was Arthur. He looked calmly at Susan, his tone flat. “Whether we can have kids or not is none of your concern.” “Instead of worrying about us, you should spend that energy figuring out if the baby in your daughter-in-law’s belly actually belongs to the Jenkins family.” Susan’s face instantly turned the color of bruised plum. Married life was as placid as still water. Arthur was a quiet man. When he was home, he was either reading or tending to his houseplants. He didn’t say much, but he was incredibly considerate. He remembered that Chloe hated cilantro. He quietly handled all the household chores. When she worked late, he always left a porch light on and a bowl of hot soup on the stove. They lived like polite roommates—respectful, courteous, but emotionally distant. Neither dared to touch the other’s deepest scar. The word “child” was never spoken. Barbara, however, visited frequently, always bringing expensive vitamins and supplements. “Chloe, you need to take care of your health. It’s pitiful enough that you can’t have kids; you can’t let your body break down on top of it.” She muttered variations of this every time. Chloe just listened silently, her emotions a tangled mess. Sometimes, she thought this life wasn’t so bad. No arguments, no expectations, which meant no crushing disappointments. Until that day. For several weeks, she had been feeling nauseous, incredibly lethargic, and completely drained of energy. At first, she thought she was just overworked and had caught a stomach bug. But when the smell of Arthur’s cooking made her sprint to the bathroom to dry heave, an absurd, impossible thought popped into her head. Trembling, she drove to Walgreens and bought a pregnancy test. When she saw those two distinct pink lines, Chloe felt her entire world collapse. She didn’t believe it. She drove to the hospital like a madwoman, demanded a walk-in appointment, and underwent a battery of tests. When the OB-GYN looked at the ultrasound and smiled, saying, “Congratulations, it’s twins. Looks like a boy and a girl,” Chloe only heard a deafening roar in her ears. How was this possible? Wasn’t she diagnosed with “Primary Infertility”? Wasn’t she told she would never be a mother? Clutching the ultrasound printout, she stumbled back home in a daze. Arthur wasn’t home from work yet. Barbara wasn’t there either. The living room was empty. She was entirely alone. She sat on the sofa, her hands shaking violently. That thin piece of photo paper felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. Twins. A boy and a girl. For any normal family, this would be the greatest news in the world. But for her, it was the ultimate mockery. A massive, suffocating lie had trapped her in its net. The doctor told her she couldn’t conceive. Barbara told her Arthur couldn’t conceive. That was the only reason they had “made do” and gotten married. But now, she was pregnant. With Arthur’s children. So, who exactly was lying? Did the original doctor misdiagnose her? Or was it… Barbara? Did she invent a lie about her son to make her “defective” daughter-in-law feel secure in the marriage? Or maybe… A far more terrifying thought slithered into Chloe’s mind like a venomous snake. Mark and Susan! Was it them? To cleanly break the engagement and latch onto the City Planner’s wealthy daughter, did they bribe the doctor to forge that diagnostic report?! Once the thought surfaced, she couldn’t suppress it. A bone-chilling cold started in Chloe’s fingertips and crept straight to her heart. If that were true… Then what was the point of the agony, humiliation, and despair she had suffered for the past six months? She had been discarded like garbage, treated as a running joke. Her entire life trajectory had been maliciously rewritten. Just then, the front door clicked open. Arthur was home. He saw Chloe sitting on the sofa, pale as a ghost, staring blankly ahead with a piece of paper clutched in her hand. “What’s wrong?” he asked, walking over with genuine concern. Chloe slowly looked up and handed the ultrasound to him. “I’m pregnant.” Her voice was as light as a feather, but in the quiet living room, it hit like a tidal wave. Arthur’s pupils contracted sharply. He stared at the ultrasound, his expression an incredibly complex mix of emotions. Shock. Confusion. And a tiny, barely perceptible flash of… joy. He was silent for a long time before he finally looked up at Chloe. “Is this real?” Chloe nodded, her eyes swimming in confusion and pain. “Arthur, tell me the truth. Did you know all along that you… that you could have kids?” That was the least horrifying scenario she could think of right now. Arthur looked at her, his gaze deep and searching. He shook his head. “I didn’t know.” His voice was quiet, but firm. “My mother always told me that a severe fever when I was a toddler caused permanent damage, making me sterile.” “All these years, I believed her.” Chloe’s heart plummeted again. If Arthur was telling the truth, there was only one possibility left. That original diagnostic report was a fake. “Where… which hospital did you get tested at originally?” Arthur asked, his tone turning analytical. “City General. The Head of Obstetrics, Dr. Wallace.” Chloe spat out the name she would never forget as long as she lived. Arthur frowned. “Dr. Wallace?” “You know him?” Chloe asked instantly. Arthur nodded. “He was the mentor to a senior colleague of mine at the law firm. He has a stellar reputation in the medical community. It doesn’t seem like something he would do.” “But the proof is right here!” Chloe’s voice rose, bordering on hysterical. “If it wasn’t him, who else could it be?” Arthur walked over and gently placed his hands on her shoulders. “Don’t panic yet. Something isn’t right here.” “We can’t just guess.” His hands were steady. His voice was steady. It carried a grounding, reassuring power. Chloe slowly forced herself to breathe.

My boyfriend’s adopted sister claimed to be the ultimate advocate for “loving herself.” During working hours, she flipped the main breaker for the entire office floor, causing everyone to lose half a day’s worth of unsaved work. She just giggled and said, “I was sooo sleepy, but it wasn’t time to clock out yet. So I listened to my body and flipped the breaker for my own mental health!” “Treat yourself! See you guys tomorrow!” To reduce her own workload, she took it upon herself to reply to a VIP client I had been courting for six months: “The price is non-negotiable. Take it or leave it.” The client was so furious they blocked us entirely. The multi-million dollar deal evaporated. When I confronted her, she acted cute and innocent. “I didn’t mean to mess it up!” “I just saw myself getting stressed, so I set my boundaries and went into boss mode! Hehe, I’m so good at prioritizing my peace!” I expressed my frustration to my boyfriend. But he just brushed it off, saying there was nothing wrong with a girl treating herself better, and told me to stop being so petty. That is, until the night of the company’s annual gala. A fire suddenly broke out in the hotel corridor while I was out there checking the venue decorations. His adopted sister blocked the only fire exit door from the other side, looking incredibly smug. “I realized I hadn’t taken any good pictures today, and the lighting right here is absolutely perfect!” “Watch me snap a flawless selfie set!” By the time she finished taking her photos, I had been burned alive in that hallway. When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the exact day she flipped the office breaker. This lifetime, her whole brand is “loving herself,” right? Fine. I’ll let her love herself straight to hell. “I really wanted a matcha latte but I didn’t want to spend my own money, so I listened to my inner child, manifested it, and ordered one as a gift to myself!” “Treat yourself! See you guys tomorrow!” A sickeningly familiar voice suddenly rang in my ears. I snapped my eyes open to find Chloe Brooks swiping on her phone, giggling and muttering to herself. After finishing her little monologue, she leaned in close to my face, pretending to be earnest. “Stella, you really need to prioritize your self-care more. Otherwise, you wouldn’t look like this in your twenties…” She pointed to the corner of her own eye. “You’re already getting crow’s feet! Watch out, or my brother might dump you~” Hearing the exact same dialogue from my past life, I finally dared to confirm it: I had been reborn! After saying her piece, Chloe tilted her head, waiting for my reaction. In my last life, I was shaking with anger but forced a polite smile. This lifetime, I just touched the corner of my eye and smiled warmly at her. “You’re absolutely right.” “I really do need to treat myself better.” Chloe let out a satisfied hum and turned her attention back to her phone. “Exactly! Oh, that new viral boba shop downstairs is doing a buy-one-get-one for the first hundred customers! I’m making a run for it!” She bounced up, grabbed her purse, and dashed toward the door. At the entrance, she turned back and shouted into the bullpen: “Anyone want to jump on a group order? If you order now, you get it instantly!” Nobody answered her. Everyone was glued to their screens, keyboards clattering frantically. Proposals had to be submitted before 3:00 PM. Chloe pouted. “You guys are so boring.” She pulled the door open and skipped out, humming a tune. I sat back in my chair and looked at my computer. The time on the bottom right corner of the screen read: 1:55 PM. There were exactly five minutes left before she flipped the breaker. I turned back to my keyboard, typed a quick command, and hit Enter. The screen flashed: [Cloud Backup Initiated.] Then, I reached down and unplugged my computer’s power cord from the wall. Clean and decisive. Mia, the intern in the next cubicle, peeked over and whispered, “Stella, what are you doing?” I looked at the 3D model rendering halfway on her screen and said, “Save your work. Right now.” Mia blinked, muttered an “okay,” and quickly hit Ctrl+S. But for everyone else, it was too late. Click. A sharp, mechanical snap echoed through the floor. The overhead lights, the glowing monitors, the hum of the servers—everything was instantly severed. Pitch black. Followed by a dead, eerie silence. And then, the entire office lost its mind. “MY DOCUMENT!!!” “I DIDN’T SAVE!!!” “THE CLIENT FILES! I SPENT THREE DAYS ON THIS PITCH!” “THE SERVERS! DID THE SERVERS JUST CRASH?!” “MY RENDER! IT’S BEEN RUNNING FOR EIGHT HOURS!” In the darkness, desperate wails and furious curses exploded simultaneously. By the electrical panel, Chloe’s cheerful voice rang out: “Huh? Why did it go dark?” She held up her phone, using the flashlight to illuminate her own face. “This is great! Since the power is out, does that mean we can clock out early?” Brenda from Accounting was shaking, her voice trembling. “Clock out? Chloe! Did you touch the breaker?! I just lost three hours of financial modeling! Corporate needs this before five o’clock!” Chloe strolled over, shining her phone flashlight right into Brenda’s fury-twisted face. “Brenda, if the spreadsheet is gone, just make it again.” “Treat yourself better. Don’t get so angry, anger gives you wrinkles.” Brenda nearly choked on her own breath, clutching her chest. Mark, the Project Lead, shot up from his desk. “Chlo. E. Brooks.” Every word sounded like it was being ground out between his teeth. “I was on a Zoom call with our European headquarters! Right! Now! Flip that breaker back ON!” Chloe acted startled by his anger, taking a step back and pouting. “Mark, why are you being so toxic… It’s not my fault the power went out, I’m not an electrician.” “YOU FLIPPED IT!!” Mark roared. “I just wanted to see what would happen,” Chloe’s voice took on a layer of grievance. “I was just manifesting clocking out early, and my hand just moved on its own… How can you blame me for that?” She turned, her flashlight sweeping over to me like she’d found her savior. “Stella! Look at them! They’re all blaming me! I was just prioritizing my peace, what did I do wrong?!” Every eye in the room turned to me. I picked up the cup of lukewarm coffee on my desk and took a sip. I smiled and said, “Prioritizing your peace? Nothing wrong with that at all.” Right as I spoke, the office doors were violently pushed open. The executive assistant, holding a heavy-duty emergency lantern, stepped aside. Liam Sterling walked in. His tailored suit was immaculate, but his face was darker than the powerless office. “Who did this.” Those three words suffocated all other noise in the room. Everyone’s gaze immediately shot to Chloe. Her hand trembled, and she shrank toward my direction. “Liam… I-I didn’t mean to… The breaker just…” Liam cut her off, his eyes locking onto my face. “Who is the manager in charge here.” In my last life, this was the moment I stood up, took the blame, said “It was my failure in oversight,” and pulled an all-nighter cleaning up her mess. This lifetime, I met Liam’s gaze and smiled. “Liam,” I said softly. “We really need to thank Chloe for this.” Chloe’s eyes lit up. I raised my lukewarm coffee. “Chloe was just teaching us a valuable lesson. A person needs to prioritize their own peace.” “Look at her. The moment she prioritized her peace and wanted to clock out, her hand just moved on its own and the breaker flipped itself.” “So efficient.” “I think this is a fantastic mindset. So I’m going to learn from her and treat myself better too.” “For example, right now.” I checked my phone. “It’s officially clock-out time. All my work for the day was just wiped out anyway. So I’ve decided…” “I. Am. Not. Working. Overtime.” The entire room fell into a deathly silence. Everyone was absolutely floored by my declaration. Mark was the first to shout: “Mr. Sterling! What kind of attitude is this from Stella?! My international conference call! The damages to the company!” Brenda burst into tears: “The financials… Corporate is breathing down my neck…” Mia the intern gritted her teeth: “Mr. Sterling, I lost an eight-hour render…” Liam stared at me. “Stella, do you have any idea what you’re saying right now?” “I do.” I set my cup down. “I’m just putting the company’s ’employee wellness’ initiatives into practice. Chloe led by example, and I think the whole company should learn from her.” Chloe nodded frantically. “Yes, exactly! Liam, I just wanted everyone to get off work early and decompress! Good vibes only!” A vein throbbed on Liam’s temple. He looked at Chloe. “Chloe, no matter what, you cannot touch the main breaker. The company is taking a massive loss.” Chloe’s lip quivered, and her eyes instantly rimmed with red. “Liam… you’re yelling at me…” “I just had a little slip of the hand…” “They were all attacking me, and Stella was making fun of me… and now even you’re blaming me…” Tears materialized on cue, rolling down her cheeks. “I said I was sorry… stop being mad at me…” “You never used to yell at me…” Liam stood rigidly, looking down at her. Finally, he let out a heavy sigh and raised a hand to pat her back. “Enough. Just don’t do it again.” Then, he looked up at me, and the room full of shell-shocked employees. “The incident has already happened.” “The priority now is damage control.” “Everyone, stay back. Mandatory overtime. We recover whatever we can.” “As for accountability…” He paused. “Stella, as the department director, your lack of oversight is unacceptable. Your salary and annual bonus for this month are docked.” “Chloe, a fifty-dollar fine as a formal warning.” Hiding behind Liam’s back, Chloe secretly stuck her tongue out at me. Liam turned to leave. “Mr. Sterling.” I called out to him, grabbing my purse and standing up. “As for overtime, I won’t be participating. Chloe is right, we need to treat ourselves better. If you want to penalize me, go ahead.” I walked to the door and paused. “From now on, whoever wants to clock out early, just go flip the breaker yourself. It saves time and it’s highly efficient.” I pulled the door open and walked out. Behind me, I could faintly hear Liam’s suppressed, furious roar, and Chloe’s tearful, victimized defensive whining. This was just the beginning. Chloe. Your true “rewards” are still on the way. Over the next two weeks, Chloe’s “rewards” began to cash in. On Tuesday, she “felt” the marketing department’s report formatting was ugly, so she “casually” dragged the master files into the recycling bin and emptied it. She blinked at the sobbing marketing coordinator. “Treat yourself better. Stop making such ugly spreadsheets.” On Wednesday, she was “thirsty” but too lazy to walk to the breakroom, so she used the adjacent team’s freshly printed bidding proposal as a coaster. The coffee stain bled through, completely obscuring the crucial pricing figures. “Oh wow, this paper is super absorbent!” she told the livid team lead in feigned surprise. “You guys should totally use this brand next time! Self-care!” On Thursday, she used the administrative department’s commercial color printer to print three hundred high-res selfies. She drained every single color ink cartridge and used up all the premium glossy paper. That afternoon, the finance team desperately needed to print and stamp color audit reports for the bank, but the printer was dead. Chloe munched on potato chips. “Can’t you just use black and white? I think black and white is super aesthetic. People need to break out of the box. Treat yourself.” I walked by during all of this, nodding and smiling. “Chloe makes a great point.” “Very unique aesthetic.” “She’s a visionary.” Chloe’s ego was practically orbiting the moon. She even started actively seeking me out to share her “insights.” “Stella, look at this client. His emails are just endless blocks of text, but the core issue is he just wants to lowball us.” She pointed at my monitor. It was a Fortune 500 tech giant I had been courting for six months. We were supposed to sign the contract next week. “Yeah, it’s pretty annoying,” I said, picking up my tea. “Exactly!” Chloe cheered excitedly. “If I were you, I’d just reply: ‘No money, no talk!’” I smiled. “Why don’t you reply for me, then?” “Really?” Chloe’s eyes sparkled. “Really.” I stood up. “I’m going to the restroom. Treat yourself, don’t hold back.” Five minutes later, I returned. Chloe was humming a pop song, scrolling on her phone at my desk. In my outbox, there was a newly sent email. Recipient: CFO of the Fortune 500 company. Content: [The price is non-negotiable. Take it or leave it. 😊] Word for word, identical to my memory before I died. The project team’s phone lines exploded ten minutes later. The client’s roaring could be heard through the receiver: “WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE?! ARE YOU PLAYING GAMES WITH US?! THE DEAL IS OFF! DO NOT EVER CONTACT US AGAIN!” Mark slammed his phone down and charged over, his eyes bloodshot. “CHLOE! BROOKS! Did you touch the Director’s computer?!” Chloe flinched in fear, but quickly puffed up her chest. “Stella asked me to help her! She said that client was annoying! I was just helping her set boundaries! Is it a crime to practice self-love?!” Everyone looked at me. I organized the files on my desk, not even looking up. “Yeah, I told her to reply.” Mark pointed a trembling finger at me, completely speechless. Liam stormed in at that exact moment, his face thunderous. “Stella. Chloe. My office. Now.” Liam slammed a thick stack of formal complaints onto his desk. “How many times is this going to happen this month?! Marketing! Admin! Finance! And now the Fortune 500 deal is dead!” His glare cut like a knife. “Chloe, explain yourself right now!” Chloe instantly turned on the waterworks, rushing over to hug his arm. “Liam… I just wanted to help Stella, and help everyone else… All that corporate grinding is so meaningless… Why do we have to compromise our mental health…” Liam shook her off. For the first time, he didn’t immediately soften. “Help?! You’re tearing this company apart! Do you have any idea how much that contract was worth?!” Chloe flinched at his yelling, sobbing even harder. “Money, money, money! That’s all you care about! What’s more important, me or the money?! I just wanted to practice self-love, and I wanted you all to love yourselves too! What did I do wrong?!” She gasped for air, crying hysterically. “You’re all bullying me… Even you’re yelling at me…” “I just want to die…” The anger in Liam’s chest visibly heaved up and down. He looked at her tear-streaked, mascara-ruined face for a full minute. And then, once again, his shoulders slumped. “…Stop crying.” His voice had already softened significantly. “Do not let this happen again.” He rubbed his temples and looked at me. “Stella, as a Director, indulging a subordinate makes you even more culpable. Your entire quarterly bonus is revoked. Write a formal incident report.” Chloe peeked at me through her fingers, a smug, victorious smirk flashing across her face. I nodded, maintaining a perfectly professional attitude. Laugh all you want. Let’s see if you’re still laughing when the hammer finally drops. The day of the annual company gala arrived. In the grand ballroom of the luxury hotel, over half of the city’s elite and industry titans were present. At the center of the crowd was Mr. Henderson, a legendary investor. Getting a single word in with him was enough to brag about for three years. Chloe stood next to Liam, offering a toast to Mr. Henderson with surprising elegance. “Mr. Henderson, my brother tells me stories about your early career all the time. I admire you so much. I’ll finish my glass; please, drink at your own pace!” I thought she would embarrass herself again, but her behavior and speech were impeccably appropriate. There was absolutely no trace of the reckless, selfish girl she played at the office. Mr. Henderson smiled approvingly, patting Liam on the shoulder. “Liam, your sister is very bright. She knows how to navigate a room.” Chloe turned around and accurately locked eyes with me. “Stella, why are you standing all by yourself?” “Oh, right,” she tapped her forehead lightly, as if suddenly remembering something. “Silly me, I got so caught up in hosting. Mr. Henderson mentioned that our company’s showcase corridor this year looks very innovative, and he wants to take a tour of it shortly.” “Sister, why don’t you go check the hallway and make sure everything is absolutely perfect? We can’t afford any mistakes in front of Mr. Henderson.” “After all… you are the Director in charge of it.” I looked at the fleeting gleam of triumph in her eyes. In my past life, it was this exact sentence that led me to that burning corridor. I finally understood. She was never stupid. She was venomous. All that “self-care” and “treating herself” nonsense was just an act to cover up her sociopathic, malicious nature. Her goal, from the very beginning, was to get me killed. I swirled the champagne in my glass and smiled at her. “Of course.” “You’re so thoughtful, Chloe. I’ll go right now.” I set my glass down, turned, and walked straight toward the corridor from my memories. Less than ten minutes later, a deafening explosion echoed from the electrical room at the far end of the hallway. BOOM! Immediately, red flames surged outward, and thick, choking smoke instantly swallowed the corridor! “FIRE!!!” Screams erupted from the direction of the ballroom. But the only exit leading back to the banquet hall was firmly blocked by a single figure. Chloe pressed her back against the heavy fire door, holding up her phone, the camera aimed right at her own smiling face. “I realized I hadn’t taken any good pictures today, and the lighting right here is absolutely perfect!” “Watch me snap a flawless selfie set!” Her lines were exactly the same as in my previous life. She giggled, shifting her angles for the camera. Outside the corridor, the terrified screams of my colleagues bled through the door: “Chloe! Why are you blocking the door! Open it!” “Director Stella is still inside!” “Move out of the way! We have to save her!” Chloe rolled her eyes in exaggerated annoyance. “Why is everyone so loud?” “She’s always preaching about self-care, she’ll definitely manifest a way out. Just trust the universe~” “Stop worrying about her~” Mark’s roar was so loud his voice cracked: “CHLOE! THIS IS A FIRE! PEOPLE ARE GOING TO DIE!!” Chloe clicked another photo, speaking with chilling nonchalance: “If they die, they die.” “The life of the person inside…” “Isn’t really worth anything anyway.” The flames had already licked at my heels, but I just smiled. I turned around and looked at the group I had specifically invited into the corridor with me: Mr. Henderson, Mr. Davis, Mr. Patel, Mr. Cohen… Every single one of the ultra-elite VIPs who had been laughing in the center of the ballroom just moments ago. None of them were missing. The face of every single man was frozen in a mask of sheer, unadulterated disbelief and towering fury. I smiled, repeating clearly and calmly: “Did you hear that? Mr. Henderson, Mr. Davis, Mr. Patel, Mr. Cohen.” “She said…” “Your lives… aren’t worth anything.” As the words hung in the air, the expressions of the VIPs darkened until they were practically dripping with malice. Behind the door, Chloe paused for a second. Then, as if she had just heard the funniest joke in the world, she burst out laughing, clutching her stomach. “Hahahaha! Stella, are you insane?! Has the fear fried your brain?!” Leaning against the heavy fire door, her voice drifted through the cracks. “Mr. Henderson, Mr. Davis… please. They’re all in the ballroom drinking champagne. Who has the time to come watch your pathetic little show?” “You think making up a few names is going to scare me into opening the door?” She leaned closer to the crack, dropping her voice to a low, venomous hiss, ensuring only I could hear her: “Stop dreaming.” “I know exactly what you want. You want to steal my brother? You want to be my sister-in-law?” “Let me tell you: Maybe in your next life!” “Wait, no. You don’t get a next life.” She tilted her head, flashing a smile that was both innocent and deeply sadistic: “In your next life, remember to prioritize your peace, and stop being a desperate bitch trying to steal someone else’s man.” “This lifetime ends right here.” The flames crackled and popped. The smoke grew thicker. Outside the corridor, hurried footsteps and shouts echoed loudly. “Miss Brooks! Please open the door immediately! Mr. Henderson’s tracker shows he is in this sector! He might be inside!” It was the voice of Mr. Henderson’s personal security detail. Chloe didn’t even turn her head, waving her hand dismissively. “Stop yelling! The tracker is glitching! Or she’s spoofing it! You think you can trick me into opening this door? Not a chance!” She pressed her back even harder against the heavy door. “I’ll say it one more time. Nobody is opening this door for that bitch!” “Just ten more minutes! Give it ten minutes!” She stared in my direction, her eyes burning with the undisguised, euphoric thrill of waiting for me to burn to death. Her voice was shrill: “In ten minutes, I promise I’ll open the door!” “I promise I’ll show everyone exactly what happens to a Director who doesn’t practice enough self-love!” “Just wait and see!” Time slipped away in the inferno. The smoke was blinding; the heat was scorching. Outside the door, the sound of bodies slamming against the metal, furious arguments, and Liam’s panicked, furious screaming all blurred together. Chloe acted like she was deaf, guarding the door with her life, humming off-key. Every so often, she raised her phone, trying to capture a few more aesthetic selfies. Nine minutes and thirty seconds later. BANG! A tremendous crash, far more violent than before, shattered the locks! The heavy fire door was violently kicked open from the outside! The immense kinetic force sent Chloe flying. She hit the floor hard. “Oww!” she yelped, but ignoring the pain, she frantically scrambled to her feet. “I told you guys, your precious Mr. Henderson isn’t in here, why won’t you just believe me?” “But fine, whatever. Nine and a half minutes is more than enough…” Wearing a triumphant, radiant, and utterly wicked smile, she eagerly peered into the smoke-filled corridor… “Stella, how does the smell of burning flesh—” Her voice, and her smile, died instantly.

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On the live trivia game show, the host asked my mom: “What is one plus one?” Without a second of hesitation, my mom answered: “Three.” Everyone in the studio froze. To scrape together the astronomical cost of my life-saving surgery, my family had gone on this show. As long as they answered ten questions correctly, they would win a five-million-dollar grand prize. After agonizingly fighting their way through nine difficult questions, the host, acting out of sheer pity, tossed them an absolute softball. This prize money was my only lifeline. But my mother, a woman with a PhD in Mathematics, deliberately answered it wrong. …… I lurched upward in my hospital bed, a dull, suffocating pain blooming in my chest. On the screen, the host recovered instantly, snapping on a professional smile: “Dr. Lillian Evans is a math PhD. Perhaps in some advanced, theoretical realm of mathematics we haven’t discovered yet, one plus one can equal three.” “However, the question I just asked is incredibly simple. You only need to use the logic of a first-grader!” But my mom just blinked, her voice unyielding: “One plus one equals three.” The host’s smile began to crack. My older brother, Caleb, thrust two fingers into the air, waving them frantically in front of my mom’s face. “Mom! We just need to get this last question right, and we’ll get the money for Chloe’s surgery!” “This is not the time to make jokes!” My dad was sweating bullets. “Honey, did you mishear the question? Did it just come out wrong by accident?” But no matter how hard my dad and brother pleaded, my mom held her ground, insisting—”One plus one is three.” The live audience erupted. “Is this mother insane?” “This has to be scripted! What kind of real mother wants her own kid to die?” Each question had a ten-minute time limit. Seeing the countdown ticking away, I begged the nurse to help me make a video call to the show’s production team. They connected me immediately. My pale, wasted face was projected onto the giant screen inside the studio. A collective gasp went through the crowd. The host’s eyes brimmed with genuine sorrow. At sixteen, I had suddenly been diagnosed with a malignant cardiac tumor. I was in mortal danger every single second of the day. The only hope I had left to live was that prize money. The host was vibrating with anxiety, looking like an ant on a hot pan: “There are only three minutes left on the clock.” “If you answer incorrectly, all of your family’s hard work will be for nothing!” To get on this show, my entire family had stayed up all night for three months, memorizing endless trivia databases. They had done the impossible and gotten nine questions right, only for my mom to start spouting nonsense on the tenth. I spoke into the camera, my voice trembling: “Mom, the prize is five million. My treatment only costs three million.” “I won’t take a single cent of the rest of the money!” “And as soon as I recover, I promise I’ll work so hard to make money, and I’ll give you my entire paycheck to take care of you!” The audience was weeping. Even Mom’s eyes welled up with tears. With ten seconds left on the clock, Mom raised her hand to indicate she wanted to change her answer. I finally let out a breath of relief. Maybe she was just playing a cruel joke on everyone. “I’m sorry, I misspoke earlier.” “One plus one… should equal…” I held my breath. Mom scanned the room, and suddenly, a small smile played on her lips. “One plus one equals one!” The countdown hit zero. The $5,000,000 on the giant screen instantly reset to zero! Chapter 2 Right then, Mom said in a slow, casual voice: “Oh, I’m sorry. I was careless. I meant to say two.” But the timer was done. My surgery money was gone. A violent throb of pain ripped through my chest. The world in front of me started to go black. Caleb lost control, screaming at the top of his lungs: “Mom! What the hell are you doing?!” “Chloe is going to die!” Mom just calmly pointed a finger at the giant screen: “Look. See how much pain Chloe is in?” “You know she’s in pain and you still got it wrong on purpose?!” Caleb’s eyes were bloodshot. “You knew if you answered it right, she would live!” “This is all your fault…” My mom’s voice suddenly spiked: “My fault? I didn’t do it on purpose!” “Of course I know one plus one is two, I was just careless with my answer!” Careless? My eyes widened in shock. How could anyone be careless about one plus one? Mom knew perfectly well that if we didn’t get that money, I would die immediately. Why would she… Amidst the crowd’s shock and fury, my mother cocked her head, turning to look at Caleb. “Caleb, do you remember your prep school entrance exam? You lost five whole points because you wrote down that one plus one equals three.” “Because of those five points, you didn’t get into the elite middle school.” “When I disciplined you, you had the nerve to talk back. You said you were just being ‘careless,’ and that you’d just pay more attention next time.” “Well, today, I’m showing you exactly what the consequences of a moment of ‘carelessness’ can be!” Mom pointed back at the big screen: “Look closely. Burn Chloe’s sweating, agonizing face into your memory.” “This is the consequence of being careless!” “Today, I am using your sister’s suffering to teach you a lesson!” The entire studio went nuclear. I stared at the screen, utterly dumbfounded. Caleb is a junior in college now! She had held onto that grudge from his middle school exams all this time just to do this?! Dad went berserk: “Do you realize Chloe is about to die?!” “If you want to teach Caleb a lesson, couldn’t you pick literally any other time or place?!” My mom just huffed, looking annoyed: “Doctors always exaggerate. Chloe is young; she can hold on much longer than other people.” “Caleb’s sloppy, careless habits needed to be cured a long time ago! Gentle lecturing didn’t work, so I am giving him a lesson carved into his very bones so he’ll never forget it!” I could barely breathe. The nurse gripped my hands tightly, her eyes filled with profound pity. Dad roared, lunging forward like he was going to tackle Mom. My mom just raised a hand to stop him. “What’s the rush?” “Doesn’t the show have a Bonus Lightning Round?” “As long as we get the next question right, we might not get the five million, but we still get a guaranteed three million dollars!” “That’s more than enough for Chloe’s surgery!” Under the host’s frantic mediation, Dad and Caleb finally managed to calm down. Mom looked at the screen, her gaze softening artificially. “Chloe, just hang on a little longer.” “Mommy just wanted to take this opportunity to educate your brother.” “The next question, Mommy will definitely get right!” I bit down on my lip so hard I tasted blood, fighting back tears. “Mom… I know you love me… but for this next question… can Dad or Caleb answer it, please?” Mom’s expression froze. Dad and Caleb, terrified that Mom would pull another stunt, immediately agreed with my suggestion. But it was too late. In the previous rounds, they had already used up all their personal answering slots. Mom was the only one allowed to take the stage. This final question held my life in the balance. The studio was dead silent. Sweat poured down the host’s face. He flipped frantically through the database, finally settling on the absolute easiest question he could find. “Lillian Evans, what date is your birthday?” “You can just say the month and day.” I let out a breath of relief, looking at the host with eyes full of immense gratitude. Mom didn’t hesitate to press the buzzer. But she said: “Host, I would like to use my ‘Phone a Friend’ lifeline!” Chapter 3 The audience gasped. How could anyone not remember their own birthday? A sickening panic settled in my stomach. Since I got sick, Mom’s hair had gotten grayer and grayer. I had heard that if middle-aged people were under chronic stress for too long, it could trigger early-onset dementia. Was Mom’s health actually failing her this badly? Tears blurred my vision. My hands were shaking. Mom chose Dad as her lifeline. Dad looked completely exhausted and exasperated: “Your birthday is January 8th.” Mom nodded and hovered her hand over the buzzer again. But she was suddenly stopped by a visibly tense Caleb. “Mom, did you hear him clearly?” “What date is it? Repeat it back to me!” Under Caleb’s intense insistence, Mom repeated “January 8th” three times before she was allowed to press the button. But Mom didn’t speak. I could see her tension. Fighting through the agonizing pain in my heart, I forced myself to comfort her: “Don’t be scared, Mom. Just answer this one last question, and it’s all over.” Mom smiled at me. But the answer that came out of her mouth plunged me into an abyss of ice. “My birthday is… January 9th!” The air instantly solidified. The host tried to save it immediately: “Your husband stated your birthday is January 8th.” “Lillian, you must have misspoken. Please, say it one more time!” But Mom’s gaze was unyielding: “I didn’t misspeak. I said it wrong on purpose.” The audience exploded into chaos. My heart ached so badly I couldn’t sit up straight. The nurse reached out to cut the video feed, but I stopped her. “Mom… why did you get it wrong on purpose again?” I choked out, my voice shivering. Mom’s eyes were full of tears, but her tone was that of a deeply aggrieved victim: “It’s all your father’s fault!” Not just my dad, but everyone in the studio was utterly bewildered. My dad had literally just given her the correct answer. What had he done wrong? Under the host’s pressing questioning, Mom wiped her tears and revealed the “truth.” “A few weeks ago was our twentieth wedding anniversary. It was also my birthday.” “But my husband, Robert Hayes, forgot the date!” “Robert! Didn’t you swear to me that my birthday was January 9th? Well, now I’m making your wish come true!” Veins popped out on my dad’s forehead. He was shaking with rage. “I admit, I accidentally got the date wrong.” “But during those days, I was working back-to-back double shifts for three days straight just to make enough money for Chloe’s medical bills! I was exhausted and delirious, so I mixed it up!” “I apologized to you afterward! I drove Uber Eats every night for three weeks straight to save up enough to buy you a gold bracelet to make up for it! Are you still not satisfied?!” Mom didn’t say a word. She just lowered her head and kept wiping her tears. The countdown was rapidly decreasing. The pain in my chest had transformed into a searing, fiery agony. Cold sweat soaked through my hospital gown. Dad begged her, pleading with her to just say the correct answer, get the money, and send me into surgery. But Mom remained entirely unmoved. My heart finally died. It turned out my life was nothing but a tool for my mother to discipline her family. The countdown had three minutes left. Using every last ounce of strength in my body, I reached out and shut off the live stream. The doctors and nurses in the room all had red, tear-filled eyes. My voice was a barely audible whisper, but it was absolute: “Doctor, I want to sign an organ donation agreement.” “And, after I die, I require that my mother be forced to watch the entire organ procurement process from start to finish!” Mom, you love teaching people lessons, don’t you? Well today, I am going to teach you a lesson! The exact second I finished signing my name, a catastrophic surge of pain ripped through my entire body. Everything went black. In the final second before my consciousness vanished entirely, I heard my mother’s voice screaming through the TV broadcast in the background: “Why are you all panicking?!” “Chloe has had this condition for months! She isn’t just going to drop dead in a single second!” Driven by sheer desperation, my father actually knelt on the floor in front of the entire nation, begging her for forgiveness, swearing he would never forget another important date again. Mom finally gave the correct answer in the absolute last second before the countdown hit zero. But, it was already too late. Chapter 4 In the resuscitation room, the doctors were desperately doing chest compressions. But my heartbeat was fading fast. My lead surgeon shouted: “We have to operate right now!” But the prize money hadn’t hit my account yet. I only had a few hundred dollars to my name. Per hospital protocol, they could only provide standard life-saving measures, not the massive experimental surgery. As my consciousness drifted, I thought I saw my mother. Mom, you knew perfectly well that I was in mortal danger every single second. Why did you keep getting it wrong on purpose to waste time? Mom, do you really not love me? The doctor’s compressions were getting harder and harder. I could almost hear the sickening crack of my own ribs. Mom, I really can’t hold on much longer… If you could just come see me one last time, I wouldn’t blame you anymore. But I waited and waited. Shot after shot of epinephrine was injected into my veins, but my breathing continued to fail. The heart monitors blared their warning alarms. According to the rules, if the funds didn’t clear, they couldn’t perform the surgery. The surgeon was furious and called the production team directly: “Didn’t she get the answer right?! Why hasn’t the money hit the hospital account yet?!” The production team was helpless. “We originally wanted to wire the money directly to the hospital, but her mother insisted on physical cash!” “They are probably driving to the hospital with the cash right now.” That final, fragile breath I was holding onto completely snapped. The EKG flatlined into a solid, silent line. In that moment, I heard my family arguing in the hallway. “Chloe is hanging by a thread! Why did you insist on cash?!” Mom sounded completely self-righteous: “Three years ago, you got scammed out of $200 online!” “Digital payments are too dangerous. Haven’t you learned your lesson?” “Cash is the only safe way! Today I am finally teaching you a lesson about financial security!” Dad sounded like he was losing his mind, his footsteps frantic. “Fine! Fine! Cash is safe!” “But what about Chloe?! Every second Chloe waits, she is closer to death!” Mom sounded incredibly annoyed: “Will you stop talking?!” “If Chloe is in danger, it’s because you cursed her with your negative attitude!” “Chloe was perfectly fine this morning! How could anything happen to her this afternoon?” Inside the resuscitation room, the doctor was slowly pulling a white sheet over my face. Utterly oblivious, my mother pushed open the door to my empty hospital room. “Chloe! Mommy brought the money!”

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Four hours before the city-wide lockdown was announced, my husband, Liam Vance, sent me a text: Working late tonight, don’t wait up. Six hours later, the entire city was under a strict quarantine mandate. I called his phone. It went straight to voicemail. I opened my flight tracking app. His name was listed on the passenger manifest for Delta Flight 587. Destination: Auckland, New Zealand. On that same flight, sitting right next to him, was Chloe Davis. Seats 12A and 12B. Window and middle. They were even sharing an armrest. In the kitchen, the pot roast was still simmering on the stove. My mother-in-law, Eleanor, poked her head out of the guest bedroom. “Why isn’t Liam home yet? I’m starving.” I turned off the burner. He wasn’t coming home. The broth boiled over, hissing as it extinguished the flame. I stared at my phone screen. DL587, Status: Departed. Next to the status bar, a tiny airplane icon was slowly inching its way toward the Southern Hemisphere. I placed my phone face down on the counter. Walking into the master bedroom, I slid open Liam’s side of the walk-in closet. Empty. Suits, winter coats, cashmere sweaters—not a single piece remained. Even his favorite brown loafers were gone. In his desk drawer, a rectangular dust outline marked where his passport usually sat. The house deed and our marriage certificate were still there. But his photocopy of his driver’s license had been removed. This wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment decision. I crouched down and pulled a shoebox from the very bottom of the closet. Inside was a printed e-ticket receipt from Delta Airlines. The print date was eleven days ago. Three tickets. DL587, Auckland. Rylee Miller, Liam Vance, Chloe Davis. The three names were printed side-by-side. But stamped across the ticket bearing “Rylee Miller” was a red “CANCELED/REFUNDED” watermark. Cancellation date: Five days ago. Eleven days ago, he bought three tickets. Five days ago, he canceled mine. He had considered taking me with him. And then, he decided not to. “Rylee!” Eleanor’s voice echoed from the living room. “Where is the food? My blood sugar is dropping, are you trying to starve me?” I folded the itinerary and shoved it into my purse. When I walked out carrying a plate of food, the TV was blaring the emergency lockdown broadcast. “Effective at 10:00 PM tonight, all public transportation in the metropolitan area will be suspended. Residents are ordered to shelter in place and non-essential travel is strictly prohibited—” Eleanor frowned and changed the channel. “So annoying, they play this all day. Did Liam say when he’s getting off work?” “He went on a business trip.” “A business trip? Where to?” “Overseas.” I set the plate down in front of her. Eleanor muttered something about “traveling at a time like this,” lowered her head to eat, and didn’t ask anything else. I stood on the balcony and watched as police tape was strung across the entrance to our gated community. A man carrying a suitcase tried to run out but was stopped by an officer and sent back. The wind was howling, whipping the yellow caution tape with a loud smack, smack, smack. At this exact moment, Liam was likely cruising at thirty thousand feet. Sitting next to him was Chloe. Standing next to me was his mother. My phone buzzed. A text from Liam: Just got to the office. Looks like I’ll be here super late tonight, you should go to bed early. Sent at: 5:14 PM. At that time, he was already sitting in the international departure lounge. I didn’t reply. I took a screenshot of the text and saved it to a newly created photo album. I thought about what to name the album for a second, then typed: Evidence. By the third day of the lockdown, our groceries had dwindled to almost nothing. Eleanor stood in front of the open fridge, rummaging around before slamming the door shut. “This is all we have left? Why didn’t you stock up beforehand?” “Because Liam said there was no need to hoard, that the lockdown would be lifted quickly.” “Can’t you think for yourself? Do you have to rely on other people to plan everything for you?!” I didn’t argue. I opened an app to check the community grocery delivery group. Vegetable bundles had to be pre-ordered a day in advance, arriving tomorrow at the earliest. I placed an order. $80 for a basic bundle: cabbage, potatoes, carrots, and a bunch of green onions. Eleanor leaned over and glanced at the screen. “Eighty dollars?! Are they robbing us?” “Then you’ll have to endure it for one day, Eleanor. We’ll have fresh food tomorrow.” “You want a woman pushing sixty to go hungry?” She pulled out her phone and dialed Liam’s number. It rang. “Liam! Your wife doesn’t even know how to buy groceries, we’re about to run out of food! When are you coming home?” She had it on speakerphone. Liam’s voice came through, sounding slightly echoed, like he was in a large, empty room. “Mom, the lockdown is strict over there. I can’t get back right now. Tell Rylee to figure something out.” “Well, where are you? Can you even sleep at the office?” A brief silence. “Yeah… the company has a breakroom with cots. Don’t worry.” Eleanor hung up and immediately started lecturing me. “Look at you. Liam is sleeping on the floor at the office, and you can’t even manage to put a decent meal on the table.” I didn’t say a word. The office breakroom. He was in Auckland, New Zealand, telling his mother he was sleeping on the floor at the office. I suddenly wondered how much Eleanor actually knew. Dinner was plain oatmeal with some pickled vegetables. Eleanor took two bites and slammed her spoon down. “I can’t eat this garbage. It’s pathetic.” At 2:00 AM, a noise woke me up. The living room light was on. Eleanor was sitting on the sofa, talking on the phone. Her voice was hushed, but through the crack in my door, I heard her perfectly clearly. “…As long as you arrived safely, that’s what matters. How is Chloe? Is she treating you well?” Chloe. She knew. She knew everything. She knew her son went to Auckland. She knew her son was with Chloe. She knew all of this, yet she lived under the same roof as me, ate the food I cooked, used the groceries I bought, and still had the nerve to curse me out for not providing a decent meal. “Don’t worry about the visa issue. Chloe’s family has connections; it’ll definitely get approved.” I leaned against the doorframe, my fingertips turning ice-cold. “Don’t worry about Rylee, I’m keeping an eye on her,” Eleanor’s voice drifted through the quiet house. “Don’t sell the house just yet, wait until the lockdown is lifted. Make sure she keeps paying the mortgage.” Don’t sell the house just yet. Make sure she keeps paying the mortgage. I quietly backed away from the door, not making a sound. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. In this house, I was the only one being played for a fool. Day seven of the lockdown. I crouched on the balcony taking inventory: half a bag of rice, a quarter bottle of cooking oil, enough vegetables in the fridge for two days. I checked my bank account balance three times. Joint Checking Account Balance: $4.63. I remembered that when my paycheck hit last month, this account had nearly $65,000 in it. I pulled up the transaction history and scrolled down, line by line. Jan 15: Transfer Out – $15,000. Recipient: C. Davis. Jan 21: Transfer Out – $12,000. Recipient: C. Davis. Feb 2: Transfer Out – $20,000. Recipient: C. Davis. Feb 8: Transfer Out – $15,000. Recipient: C. Davis. C. Davis. Chloe Davis. Four transfers, totaling $62,000, draining our joint account entirely. Time span: twenty-four days. The last transfer was two days before the lockdown. $65,000. That was three years of my savings. When I quit my job as a researcher at the CDC, Liam told me he made enough money and that I should stay home and take care of his mother with peace of mind. But the mortgage on this condo was still being paid from my pre-marital savings account, costing $3,000 a month. The utilities, Eleanor’s expensive supplements, and daily expenses all came out of the joint account. He deposited $4,000 into it every month, and my personal savings were pooled in there too. Now, it was all gone. My personal account only had $580 left. Not even enough for next month’s mortgage. I sat on a small stool on the balcony. The sun warmed my back, but it couldn’t reach the coldness in my heart. A message from Liam popped up: Honey, how are things over there? Are you and Mom okay? I stared at the word “Honey” for a long time. I typed out a single line: Where is the money from our joint account? Sent. Three minutes later, he replied: What money? The $62,000. The money transferred to C. Davis. Read. No reply. Ten minutes later, he called me. “Rylee, listen to me. That money went into a high-yield investment. Once I get back, we’ll—” “C. Davis is Chloe Davis.” Silence. “…She’s helping me manage some offshore assets. You wouldn’t understand the financial side of it.” “I wouldn’t understand?” I let out a short laugh. “Liam, my Ph.D. is in Epidemiology, but I minored in Statistics during my undergrad. Do you want to guess what else I found when I ran an analysis of your spending habits over the last six months?” He hung up. I didn’t call back. I took a screenshot of the call log and saved it to the “Evidence” folder. Eleanor hobbled out of the bathroom using her cane, looking pale. “Rylee, I feel dizzy.” I helped her sit down and took her blood pressure: 168 over 100. She had a history of hypertension. She hadn’t been eating well the past few days, and her medication was running low. I scoured the medicine cabinet. Only three blood pressure pills left. I called the community health hotline; busy signal. I called 911; placed on hold due to high call volume. I hung up the phone and looked at Eleanor’s pale face. This woman, who had actively helped her son scheme against me, was currently leaning against my shoulder, trembling. “Rylee, I feel awful…” “I know.” I broke one of the last three pills in half and gave it to her. “Take this for now. I’ll go figure something out.” Hating her was one thing. Letting her die on my watch was another. I got the blood pressure medication from my neighbor, Sarah. She lived across the hall, a retired nurse who used to work at the local clinic. When I knocked on her door, she was mixing bleach to sanitize the hallway. “Blood pressure meds? Yeah, I have half a box left. What kind does your mother-in-law take?” “Nifedipine extended-release.” Sarah dug through her medical kit and handed me a blister pack. “This is enough for ten days. By then, the pharmacies should be allowed to deliver again.” “Thank you so much, Sarah.” “Do you have a medical background?” she asked suddenly. I paused for a second. “I used to. Not anymore.” “What field?” “Epidemiology.” The look in Sarah’s eyes changed. “Rylee, do you know our district doesn’t even have a specialist advising us right now? The community clinic only has two doctors, and they’re overwhelmed. A few days ago, someone in Building 3 had symptoms, and everyone was terrified. We didn’t have anyone qualified to assess the risk.” I didn’t reply. Three years. It had been three years since I touched anything related to my field. Liam had said: “A family only needs one breadwinner. You staying home and taking care of Mom is more valuable than any job.” Eleanor had said: “What’s the point of a woman getting all those degrees? She still just ends up staying home to raise kids.” My publication record had flatlined three years ago. My former mentor, Dr. Harrison, texted me every New Year’s Day: “Rylee, the door to the research institute is always open for you.” Every year, I replied, “Thank you, Professor,” and went back to making soup, buying groceries, and sorting Eleanor’s pills. When I got back inside, Eleanor’s color had improved. She had taken the medicine and was leaning back on the sofa, watching TV. “Rylee, look at this news segment.” The TV was broadcasting a report about Liam’s company, highlighting their donation of medical supplies to overseas relief efforts. The screen flashed, and I saw Liam. Impeccably dressed in a tailored suit, standing among a group of executives behind a donation banner. The background was the blindingly blue sky of Auckland. Standing right next to him was a woman in a sleek black blazer, her hair pinned up elegantly, a necklace resting against her collarbone. I recognized that necklace. Swarovski, the iconic Swan collection. Liam had given it to me for our anniversary last year. I had only worn it once, feeling it was a bit too flashy, and put it away in my jewelry box. Now, it was draped around Chloe’s neck, catching the light for the cameras. Eleanor didn’t recognize it. She only cared about her son. “Liam looks so thin; his face is drawn. He’s all alone out there, I wonder if anyone is taking proper care of him.” Someone was taking care of him. Taking very good care of him. While wearing my jewelry. I walked into the kitchen and turned the faucet on full blast. The rushing water drowned out everything else. I gripped the edge of the sink for a long time, my nails digging into my palms. The cold water ran through my fingers. When I finally turned the faucet off, my phone rang. Caller ID: Dr. Harrison. “Rylee, you know what the situation is like right now. Our institute is desperately short-staffed, and your expertise in transmission dynamics modeling is exactly what we need.” “Professor, it’s been three years since I—” “Three years is nothing. Your brain hasn’t atrophied, and you haven’t stopped keeping up with the literature. I checked the system logs; you’ve maintained your premium access to the academic databases.” I stayed silent. He knew I had kept reading. Liam didn’t know. Eleanor didn’t know. Only my mentor knew that I had never truly let it go. “Come on as a volunteer first, no pressure. But Rylee, your talent shouldn’t be wasted standing in front of a stove.” I hung up the phone and stepped out onto the balcony. The courtyard of the complex below was completely empty. Dead leaves were tangled in the chains of the swingset. There was no sound of children playing. The entire city felt like it was on pause. But for some things, it was time to hit play again. Day fifteen of the lockdown. Liam started calling frequently. Not me, but his mother. Every evening after dinner, Eleanor would take her phone into her bedroom and shut the door. I didn’t try to eavesdrop anymore. I didn’t need to.

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Before I translated this story, I knew it needed to breathe the air of a different place. The heart of the narrative—a toxic family dynamic, the crushing weight of a parent’s addiction, and the struggle for self-preservation—is universal. However, the textures, the settings, and the expressions had to become authentically American. My goal was to maintain the original emotional arc and the specific structure of the short story while making it feel as though it were written here, for us. Names have been changed. Cultural markers, like the specific mechanisms of gambling debt or social pressure, have been localized. But the raw pain, and ultimate hope, remain. Chapter 1 I didn’t cry when my mother asked me for money for the first time. I didn’t cry when she showed up at my workplace, causing a scene and making sure everyone from HR to the mailroom knew my father was a gambling addict. I didn’t cry when she stole my debit card and drained five years of my savings—every penny I had—to pay off my father’s latest debts to some shadowy bookie. I didn’t cry when she secretly went behind my back to ask my boyfriend for cash, leading to weeks of his family bombarding my phone with angry, accusatory texts and calls. But when she told me she was finally planning to get a divorce, I cried. I laughed until I cried. “Elena,” I said, using her first name because ‘Mom’ felt like a lie, “that is hands-down the funniest joke I’ve heard all year.” … Before terms like “codependent” or “toxic enabler” became common, I just thought my mom was the most devoted wife on the planet. It didn’t matter how badly my dad yelled at her or belittled her the night before; the next morning, she’d be up at six, making him coffee just the way he liked it, smoothing out the collar of his shirt before he left for work. Then, the moment the front door clicked shut, she’d lean against the kitchen counter, wiping her eyes, whispering to no one about how miserable her life was. When I was little, my dad ran an import business that kept him on the road, hardly ever home. Our house was always quiet, except for the sound of my mother’s muffled sobbing. She’d say he was heartless for abandoning us, that she’d moved all this way to be with him and had never known a day of happiness. My tiny heart ached for her. I decided my dad was the villain, the boogeyman. Whenever he actually came home, I’d hide in my room, ignoring him no matter how loud he called my name. The consequence? My mother would spank me, screaming that I was an “ungrateful brat.” She’d tell me my father worked so hard for us, and if I couldn’t say anything nice, I should at least be respectful. “Useless child,” she’d hiss, cutting me a glare while pouring him a glass of water. Later, when the import business went under, he came home and got a regular job at a local warehouse. But my mother’s complaints didn’t stop. The house was always full of his friends and relatives. My mom ran herself ragged cooking and cleaning for them, while my dad just sat, drank beer, and bragged. Everyone praised her. “What a great wife,” they’d say. “So capable, so hardworking.” The praise only made my father more arrogant. He’d drink more heavily, food and beer spilling onto the carpet. After the guests finally left, my mom would clean up the mess, cursing under her breath the whole time, her hands never stopping. My dad, meanwhile, would be passed out on the living room recliner. I asked her once, “Why doesn’t Dad just take everyone out to a restaurant? This is too hard on you.” She snapped back that money didn’t grow on trees, and asked if I was the one who wanted to go out, accusing me of not caring about the family’s budget. “I’m worried about you!” I shot back, furious. But she just looked annoyed. “You’re just like your father. All talk. Who knows what you’re really thinking.” I tried to help her clean, but she shoved me away, saying I’d only get in the way. Later, when my dad woke up from his nap, I heard her telling him, “Your daughter says you’re cheap. Thinks you’re too stingy to take people out to dinner.” My father erupted, roaring at my bedroom door. “You disrespectful little shit! My business is none of your concern!” By the time I was in high school, the fighting was constant. Often it would last past midnight, only stopping when the neighbors threatened to call the cops. I couldn’t sleep through it. I was always exhausted in class, leading to a humiliating public reprimand from a teacher during a parent-teacher conference. When we got home, they started fighting about that. I finally yelled, “Can’t you two just get a divorce? It would be better for everyone!” My dad slapped me, hard across the face. My mother just wept. “If it wasn’t for you, we would have divorced a long time ago.” “You ungrateful child,” my father added. “We’ve sacrificed everything for you, and now you want to break up this family?” A few days later, they were back to acting like newlyweds. And I was the villain who had tried to tear them apart. Growing up, it didn’t matter how much my mom complained about my dad to me; she could never leave him. And whenever I tried to take her side, to pointing out what my dad was doing wrong, she’d immediately turn on me. “Apologize to your father. He’s still your father!” “How can you speak to him like that? He’s your father!” “This is between us, you stay out of it.” I heard it so many times I became numb to it. The words formed a callous over my heart. My mother didn’t love me. She only loved my father. That’s why she willingly walked into the fire, knowing it was a trap. That’s why, no matter how much she suffered or complained, she’d never let anyone speak a bad word about him. That’s why she didn’t care about anything I did for her, easily stealing my life savings. That’s why she was willing to embarrass me in front of my colleagues and my boyfriend, just to get money for his gambling debts. Chapter 2 The summer after high school graduation, my dad vanished. He took every dime the family had saved and drove south, starting a new life with his mistress. My mom tried to throw herself out a window several times; I had to drag her back inside. She beat me with her fists, screaming and crying that it was all my fault. She blamed me for everything. If I had been more obedient, if I had been more successful… Their marriage wouldn’t have ended. It was like I was the villain in a movie, the one who broke up the star-crossed lovers. My grandparents took over caring for my broken mother, and I dragged my suitcase alone onto a Greyhound bus, heading north for college. There was no money for tuition or housing. Every spare moment I had was spent working. I got a job tutoring a middle school kid. One night, the family asked me to stay for dinner. Watching the three of them at the table, talking and laughing, I had to force the delicious food down my throat past the bitterness. I felt like a sewer rat, spying on other people’s happiness. When I went home for winter break my freshman year, I discovered my dad had been back for six months. He’d developed a serious gambling problem down south, been swindled out of all his money by the mistress, and only made it back home after a sympathetic old friend gave him a ride. My mom told me this as if it were nothing, completely ignoring the way my face was turning purple with rage. “So, you’re just going to take this piece of trash back? He didn’t want you! He only came back because he had nowhere else to go!” “How dare you talk about your father like that? He’s turning over a new leaf! He made a mistake! Not like you, still standing there with your cold, heartless attitude.” She felt that as long as he came home, it meant he still loved her. She even said, “All men are like this. Your father isn’t so bad compared to some. The guy you find will probably be worse.” “Children don’t stay forever. Your father is the only one who will be with me until the end.” I never asked her why she never sent me money. She never asked me how I was paying for college. It was like we both just accepted it as the natural order of things. I accepted that she would never give me money. She accepted that I was an adult now, and responsible for myself. After I went back to school, I rarely visited. My life was consumed by part-time jobs and studying. There was no time for the fun, carefree college experience I was supposed to be having. When I went back for Thanksgiving senior year, she accused me of being cold-blooded in front of all the relatives. “He gets out into the world and completely forgets his parents. Doesn’t even call. Then he comes back here and just eats, eats, eats. He’s like a bill collector coming to collect a debt.” My aunts and cousins chimed in. “You’re an adult now, you need to grow up. Family comes first. Your parents worked hard to raise you; you need to show some gratitude.” I listened to their accusations in silence, the rare holiday break already ruined. A fleeting, regretful thought crossed my mind: I should have stayed at school and worked the holiday shift. Triple pay. After graduation, I stayed up north, found a job, worked myself to the bone, pulling shifts until 2 AM, hoping to get hired permanently. Apartments near the city were too expensive. To save money, I rented a damp garden-level studio. Sleeping in that cold, dark room, I made a silent vow to work even harder, to someday have a real home of my own in this city. Not long after, my mother called. She was beat around the bush, asking about my salary, saying she wanted to come visit. Under my repeated questioning, she finally admitted the truth. Dad was gambling again. He’d lost all the money and came home drunk and beat her. “My sweet daughter, send your mother some money. I think my arm is broken. The pain is so bad I can’t even make dinner.” Chapter 3 I took two days off and caught the next flight home. In the taxi on the way from the airport, I called 911. When I knocked on the door, my mother’s left eye was bloodshot, a massive bruise forming on her cheek. Her arm was twisted at a grotesque, broken angle. The moment she saw me, she burst into tears and begged me to take her to the hospital. I said, “Not yet. We’re waiting for the police.” I saw the look in her eyes shift from fear to panic, then anger. “Who told you to call the police? Do you want to send your own father to jail?” She flailed her good arm, hitting her own leg. “Oh, what have I done to deserve this? I should never have called you.” “Get on the phone. Right now. Call the police back. Tell them everything is fine, you made a mistake, that we don’t need them. Do it now!” Before she could finish, there was a knock on the door. Despite my mother’s repeated insistence that she had fallen, based on my explanation and the clear evidence, the police took my father away. They found him in a back room of a local bar, sitting at a poker table. The whole place was shut down. While we were at the hospital getting her arm set, my mother didn’t care who was listening. She screamed at me, calling me heartless. I didn’t argue. Those words still felt like needles pricking my chest, but I decided she was just in shock. She’d relied on this man her entire life, obsessed with the idea of a complete family unit. For the sake of that complete family, she could forgive his laziness, even his affair. But when his fist actually connected with her body… I honestly didn’t believe she could forgive that. But I still underestimated my mother’s toxic enmeshment. Even with her arm in a cast, she dragged herself out to bring him a blanket and home-cooked meals while he was in holding, terrified he was cold and hungry. She said everything she could to the police, begging them to release him early. The police were fed up with her, too. They held him for three days and then let him go. I didn’t see him. I only had two days off. Once I got my mother from the hospital, I left. The day he was released, my mother called. She spewed the most vile, hateful insults at me. I knew she was doing it for him, right in front of him. She felt her husband had been wronged, and she needed a visible way to get revenge for him. Before hanging up, I said softly, “Mom, don’t ask me for money again.” She paused, then her voice became even sharper. “We raised you for nothing. Other kids start working and know they need to send money home to their parents. And you?” “Giving your own parents a little money is like pulling teeth for you. You don’t care if your mother lives or dies. And you called the police! You embarrassed us so badly, how are we supposed to show our faces around here? All your life, all you’ve ever done is cause trouble…” I couldn’t listen anymore. I hung up. It was true, I had never sent money home. But when I was in college, no one sent me money, either. I did care if she lived or dies, but since she didn’t seem to care about her own life, I had to respect her choice. But what I never expected was that, for his sake, for that illusion of love she’d conjured, she would actually destroy her own daughter. Chapter 4 Back at work, I blocked my mother’s number. Two months later, I saw her standing outside my office building. Ignoring the rush of morning commuters, she burst into tears and lunged for me, begging for money. “Daughter, you have to help us. Your father… he went gambling again… and this time he owes some very dangerous people. They showed up at the house!” “They said we have one week to pay it all back, or they’re going to… they’re going to chop off your father’s fingers!” This was the day of my final review, the one that would determine if I got hired permanently. My Sun exploded with shame as colleagues gave me strange looks. I dragged my mother to a secluded corner, pleading with her that she needed to get a divorce, not keep paying off a gambler’s debts. “Mom, I just started this job. I don’t have that kind of money. What kind of life is this? We can’t keep doing this with a gambler. When are you going to wake up?” She wiped her eyes. “But he’s still your father. I’ll go home and talk to him, try to talk some sense into him. You can’t just stand by and watch him… watch him get his fingers chopped off!” Seeing her still only worried about him, the rage boiling inside me erupted. I screamed that she was delusional, that dad only got this far because she had enabled him every step of the way. But looking at the wrinkles on her face and the worn-out patches on her coat, I ultimately couldn’t do it. I ordered her a Lyft, told her to go to my apartment and wait, and that we’d figure something out when I got off work. I never imagined that by the time I got off work, having bought groceries to make her some soup, she would be gone. And she’d stolen my debit card. That card held every penny I had saved, from my student jobs to my current position. Six thousand dollars. My entire life savings. I sprinted to the nearest ATM. The money was gone. My PIN was my birthday. I wanted to ask her, so badly: when she had me, was it to build a warm family, or just to have someone she could push all her problems onto? When I was little, I was her emotional garbage can, a tool to manage her relationship with her husband. And now that I was an adult, I was just her ATM. I slumped down in front of the ATM, useless. My phone buzzed. It was a text from my mother, using someone else’s phone. “Your father’s fingers are safe. You were good for something after all.” I could only offer a bitter laugh. Given the choice between me and my father, she would always choose him. My work app chimed. My manager had seen the scene that morning. Despite a perfect final presentation, I wasn’t getting hired permanently. In a single day, I lost my savings, my job, and my will to live. Dragging my heavy feet, staring at the endless stream of city traffic, I wondered if I could just let go. Could I finally escape this toxic family, never be used again? I closed my eyes and started to step out into the middle of the street, my Sun full of despair, wanting only an end. Just before a speeding car could hit me, someone grabbed my arm. Looking at him, sweating and panting, I realized someone had run three blocks just to save my life. His name was Ethan. We were in college together; I later found out he’d had a crush on me back then. Like a lost ship spotting a lighthouse in the dark, we fell together. His parents had retired to Arizona, his sister was a successful local entrepreneur, and he’d landed a job at a major tech company. I often felt like I didn’t deserve him. But he always said that when he saw me that day, huddled in a little ball, his heart had physically wrenched in his chest. Surrounded by his love, I couldn’t help but start to fantasize about the warm home we would build, a family that was completely different from the one I had known. But that beautiful dream bubble burst with a single phone call from his sister. I heard her say, “You need to handle your girlfriend. Tell her mother to stop asking my brother for money. One more time, and I am calling the police and reporting them for fraud! Don’t you dare think you can marry into our family by using my brother’s feelings. We aren’t trash like your family. Get out!” A bone-chilling cold invaded my core. For the first time, I felt an overpowering, towering hatred for my parents. I hated them for endlessly draining me, for being like ghosts that never left, and for even going behind my back to ask Ethan for money. If this was my fate, fine. I’d accept it. But Ethan was too good. He was like warm sunshine, shining light on my cold, gray corpse. He hadn’t even mentioned that my mother was asking him for money. I couldn’t drag him down with me. His sister was right. A trash family like mine didn’t deserve them. I packed my things and moved out of Ethan’s apartment. I sent him a text breaking up with him and blocked his number. But he found me almost immediately. With tears streaming down my face, I said I could write him an IOU, that I would pay back whatever money my mother owed him, and to please just give me some time. While I was saying I was sorry, he pulled me into a crushing hug. I could feel his hands trembling through my clothes. “Don’t apologize,” his voice came, muffled against my shoulder. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” “Ethan, my family situation… I don’t want to drag you down. We aren’t right for each other.” “Trust me to help you handle this. Please, just let me help you. Okay?” “I don’t want to see you suffer anymore. You’ve had it so hard. You deserve a happy life.” Do I deserve that? I choked, unable to speak. No one had ever said that to me before. All my life, I had been blamed. My mom always said that if it wasn’t for me, dad wouldn’t have been like that, that she would have been happier. Having heard it enough, I truly believed I was the family’s curse. Now that I was an adult, the weight of this toxic family had crushed me. A peaceful life was a far-off dream, and I didn’t dare ask for happiness, or for someone to help me. It turns out I didn’t do anything wrong. They did. Ethan helped me pack my things that day. I left the cramped, moldy studio I had rented and moved back to our little home. In that dry, comfortable bed, in Ethan’s warm, broad embrace, I had the deepest sleep of my entire life. The next time my mother called Ethan for money, I took the phone. When she heard my voice, my mother paused, her tone sounding guilty. “Daughter, you have better luck than your mother. You found a good man. Help your mother one more time. I promise, your father won’t gamble again! I… I’m getting a divorce from him right away.” When I heard that, I gave a soft chuckle. “Mom, Ethan isn’t giving you another dime. You and dad are on your own. Believing a gambler like you… I’d have better luck believing a stop sign could talk.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “397476”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

For the fifth year of my relationship with Carter Hayes, we were still crammed into a tiny, run-down studio apartment. Because we were broke, I took on a side hustle on an anonymous venting app called VentSpace. It paid $15 an hour, double if the client wanted to hurl verbal abuse at you. While other listeners avoided the bad-tempered clients like the plague, I always scrambled to take them on. But today, I matched with an incredibly generous client who had a strong urge to confess. [I’ve been with my girlfriend for five years. Honestly, I’m getting bored.] [But she’s so stupidly cute. I purposefully buy her knockoff designer bags, and she accepts them with tears of joy. I pretend to be broke and tell her I can’t afford to marry her, and she actually says she’ll work extra shifts to help save up for our future home.] [I’ve wanted to end the game for a while now, but I just can’t seem to let her go. Besides her, I doubt anyone else would be stupid enough to work three jobs a day just for the chance to marry me.] A strange, unsettling feeling twisted in my chest. I tentatively replied: “Why don’t you try spending some time apart? See how you really feel about her?” The very next second, Carter sent me a text. “Baby, my boss just assigned me to a month-long business trip out of state! Triple pay! When I get back, I’ll finally have enough saved up to marry you!” 1 I stared at his pinned message at the top of my screen, a suffocating weight pressing down on my chest. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, unable to type a reply. How could this be possible? I looked up and scanned my surroundings. The cramped studio was filled with our shared life. Matching towels, matching toothbrushes, even the matching pajamas we wore were personally picked out by Carter. Every time he came back to this apartment, he would cling to me like a koala, never holding back his words of affection. “Baby, I love you so much. I washed cars all day today and my hands feel like they’re going to fall off, but the second I think of you, I’m not tired anymore.” “Baby, you’re too good to me. I just wish I wasn’t so broke. If I had money, I’d marry you tomorrow and hide you away in a mansion.” My eyes landed on the small humidifier by my bedside—a gift from Carter. Working multiple jobs from dawn to dusk had wrecked my skin. It was constantly dry, tight, and itchy. Especially my hands. They had endured the elements from passing out flyers, delivering takeout in the freezing rain, and soaking in commercial dishwater until they swelled. No one would ever guess they belonged to a twenty-something girl. They were calloused, cracked, and frequently bled. I still remember how Carter had held my bleeding hands back then, his eyes turning bright red. “Harper, when I make it big, I’m going to move you into a massive house. I’ll never let you suffer or get hurt again.” I would always smile at him and say, “I know. I believe in you!” The day I received that humidifier, my heart was full, completely convinced that true love could conquer all. Maybe it’s just a coincidence, I thought. I opened his chat: “Okay, I’ll wait for you.” A moment later, Carter replied: “Even though it’s only a month, it’s still long-distance. Baby, while I’m gone, you are absolutely not allowed to fall for anyone else.” He attached a cute, insecure-looking meme. I couldn’t help but let out a bitter laugh. Because of his supposed poverty, Carter always acted incredibly insecure around me, terrified that one day I wouldn’t be able to take it anymore and would leave him. To reassure him, even during the darkest, most exhausting days, I never once brought up breaking up. Now, I replied exactly as I always did: “I could never fall in love with anyone but you.” Before the text even finished sending, the VentSpace app chimed. I immediately switched screens. After all, this client was the only one who paid double without screaming at me. [That’s a great idea. I told her I have to go on a month-long business trip, and she didn’t suspect a thing. So gullible.] [I’ve played poor for so long, and she still refuses to leave me. Looks like she genuinely loves me. They say long-distance is the ultimate test of loyalty, right? I’m going to hire a guy to hit on her. If she resists the temptation, then I might actually consider marrying her.] [I don’t really have anyone I’m madly in love with right now anyway, so I might as well marry someone who is madly in love with me. When the time comes to reveal the truth, she’ll probably cry from how touched she is…] … The more I read, the colder my blood ran. I couldn’t lie to myself anymore. I clicked on his anonymous profile. It was filled with pictures of luxury watches and exotic sports cars. One photo was of a sleeping Toy Poodle. I stared at it for a very long time. The blanket the dog was sleeping on… was the exact scarf I had hand-knitted for him. He told me he lost it on the subway. He said he was so scared I’d be mad that he secretly saved up for months to buy me a Louis Vuitton scarf to make up for it. It turns out, my handmade scarf was thrown into a dog bed, and the LV scarf was a counterfeit. My nose stung. I blinked, and a heavy tear smashed abruptly onto my screen. Masochistically, I scrolled further down his feed, my heart turning to ash with every swipe. On Valentine’s Day, while I was freezing on a street corner selling single roses for five bucks a pop, he tipped an internet model ten thousand dollars in a single night. On New Year’s Eve, while I was crying tears of joy because he bought me a ten-dollar sparkler, he was dropping hundreds of thousands to rent out a drone light show for a minor actress. Carter was right. I really was stupid. Stupid beyond cure. Naive enough to believe that pure, unadulterated love could overcome any obstacle. I never stopped to consider if the other person’s heart was just as genuine. I wiped my tears and deleted the text I was about to send Carter. Instead, I typed: “Carter, what if I really do fall for someone else?” 2 Carter didn’t reply for a long time. I stared at the screen until my eyes burned. Just when I thought he was going to ignore it, my phone began to ring. It was him. “Baby, I was just joking! You know I have major insecurity issues. I’m so broke, and I’m dragging you down, making you work yourself to the bone just so we can afford a future together. I’m the one who’s terrified of you leaving.” I wanted to laugh. Five years of unwavering loyalty. What exactly did I have to do to give him a sense of security? “If you fell for someone else, I think I’d literally cry until I died. You wouldn’t have the heart to do that to me.” I don’t even know how I managed to hang up the phone. Choking back the sobs in my throat, I gave a vague hum of agreement. The VentSpace app flashed: [I just casually mentioned wondering if she’d fall for someone else while we’re long-distance, and she actually seemed to get mad. Tsk, tsk. Guess she just loves me too much. That’s why she’s so anxious.] I composed myself and typed a reply. As cold and detached as a bystander. “Are you still planning to hire someone to test your girlfriend? What if she actually does cheat?” [Of course I’m going to test her. Don’t you think it’s a fun game? If she actually cheats, perfect. It gives me the upper hand to force a breakup. I get to be the flawless victim. Then, when I drop the ‘poor’ act, she won’t have the dignity to come crawling back to me.] [If I talked about this with my buddies, they’d call me a toxic bastard. That’s why I like your service. You’re tight-lipped. Tell you what, I’ll send you a nice tip. Drop your CashApp.] Listening to the ding of the “$1,500 received” notification, I typed back, word by word: “Thank you, boss. Wishing you a successful breakup.” It wasn’t until my shift was completely over that sensation finally returned to my limbs. Two hours of chat time, plus the tip. A total of $1,530. Enough to cover a year’s rent on our cramped studio. Or, exactly the amount we were short for our goal. We had a goal of $20,000—the down payment for a modest starter home. Carter and I had been saving for five years, but we were always just a little bit short. Every time we got close to the finish line, an “accident” would happen. Either I would be purposefully harassed by a customer at the diner and forced to pay for a ruined meal, or Carter would fall severely ill and the money would vanish into medical bills. I still remember two years ago, when the mason jar we used as a piggy bank was finally stuffed to the brim. I held it, bursting with joy, ready to tell Carter we could finally start looking at houses. But when I called his phone, a nurse answered. She said Carter had been in a terrible car accident and was in the ICU. They didn’t know if he would ever wake up. I remember my hands shaking so badly I dropped the phone. I ran to the hospital in the middle of the night, still wearing my thin pajamas. I never got to see him, but I was directed to the billing department. When I smashed that mason jar on the counter to pay the deposit, my hands were trembling. Not because I couldn’t bear to part with the money, but because I was so, so thankful we at least had emergency funds to save his life. I wasn’t allowed into the ICU, but the daily out-of-pocket costs crushed me. Soon, our entire life savings were gone. I had no choice but to work day and night. I had just resolved to quit the waitress job where my manager constantly made creepy, inappropriate comments. The very next day, I had to swallow my pride and beg him for my shifts back. I still remember the way he looked at me in his office. Like I was cheap, desperate trash with zero self-respect. I endured his harassment, working twice as hard to make money. Whenever I felt like I couldn’t take it anymore, I would run to the hospital. Even though I couldn’t see Carter, I would sit on the floor outside his ward for the entire night. The next morning, I would gather my strength and face reality all over again. But I had just seen the truth on his anonymous profile. During that exact same time period, when he was supposedly in a coma… He wasn’t fighting for his life in a hospital bed. He was taking his new flavor-of-the-month to a private villa in Bali. It was all fake. The only thing that was real was me being the ultimate punchline. I stared at the balance on my screen. I didn’t transfer it to our joint “future fund” like I usually did. Instead, I bought a blind-box plane ticket. The destination was a total surprise. Carter really didn’t know me at all. I love fiercely, but I hate just as fiercely. The thing I despise most in this world is desperate, pathetic clinging. 3 It didn’t take long for me to meet the man Carter sent to “test” me. Tristan Sterling. A notorious playboy and heir to a massive real estate empire. Logically speaking, we existed in two entirely different universes. If it weren’t for that deliberate rear-end collision, we never would have crossed paths in this lifetime. When I felt the violent jolt from behind my car, my heart skipped a beat, and my fingers trembled uncontrollably on the steering wheel. It wasn’t until a polite knock came at my window that I snapped out of it. “Miss, let’s talk about the damages.” I stepped out and took a look. His headlights were smashed, and my rear bumper was completely caved in. However, my car was a beat-up clunker. The entire vehicle wasn’t even worth one of his headlights. Carter really spared no expense just to play a prank on me. I forced a tight smile and looked at Tristan. He instantly offered a perfectly calculated, charming smile. Elegant and effortless. “Miss, let me get your number. We can settle this privately.” “Name your price.” As he pulled out his phone, I caught a glimpse of his active call screen. The profile picture was incredibly familiar. It was Carter’s. The call was active. A sharp pang of agony wrapped around my heart. I closed my eyes for a second. “You’re entirely at fault, correct?” Tristan froze, clearly not expecting this reaction. “Since that’s the case, let’s wait for the police to arrive and file an official report. The law will dictate the compensation.” Tristan’s perfect smile cracked. His expression changed, masking sheer disbelief. “Are you stupid? If we settle privately, you can walk away with a lot more cash!” “How much do you think insurance is going to pay out for this piece of junk?” Exhausted, I sat down on the curb. Looking down at my cheap, thrift-store clothes, I let out a bitter laugh. How could I not understand? It’s just that, now that I didn’t need to save for Carter’s fake future, I wasn’t that desperate for cash anymore. I made enough to feed myself just fine. As the wail of police sirens grew closer, I watched Tristan’s active call disconnect. At the exact same moment, the VentSpace app chimed. [I had my buddy rear-end her car to manufacture a meet-cute, and she actually called the cops! Do you think poverty rotted her brain? She could have easily used this to squeeze a massive payout out of him.] [Do you know how many women would kill for my friend’s phone number? The opportunity is practically shoved in her face, and she turns it down.] [I used to think she was just naive, sometimes in a cute way. But now I realize she’s a total moron. You don’t think she’s actually planning to latch onto me forever, do you?] I sat on the bus stop bench outside the police precinct. The cold, sterile glow of the streetlamp illuminated my face. It was terrifyingly apathetic. “If you want to make a clean break with her, why not just be direct? Maybe she won’t cling to you like you think.” The typing bubble flashed, and Carter replied instantly. [Are you kidding me!] [You have no idea what people like her will do for money. Her old boss was a total creep who constantly sexually harassed her. She would cry and complain to me about it every day, but when I told her to quit, she refused.] [She claimed she wanted to share my financial burden, but if you ask me, I bet she actually enjoyed the attention.] A numb, creeping sensation spread through my chest. My immediate instinct was to type back and expose the entire ugly truth. But the curses stalled in the text box. Word by word, I deleted them. I kept reminding myself: Do not give Carter what he wants. Five years of blood, sweat, and tears. I wasn’t going to let this end with a quiet, pathetic whimper! “If that’s the case, then you really don’t need to worry. Since your friend is wealthy and handsome, your girlfriend will likely jump ship very soon. When that happens, you’ll finally be free.” I hit send. When I looked up, a sleek Bentley had silently pulled up to the curb. The window rolled down, revealing Tristan’s face. The flirty, playboy attitude from earlier was dialed back, replaced by a veneer of formal charm. “Miss Evans, perhaps I misjudged you.” He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, the thrill of the hunt sparking in his eyes. “Get in. I’ll give you a ride.” “Let’s start over. Nice to meet you, Madam Plaintiff.” A freezing gust of wind whipped my bangs across my forehead, but I flashed a brilliant, radiant smile. “Sure thing, Mr. Defendant.” I cleanly opened the car door. As I leaned in, my hair fell forward, masking my face. Tristan never saw the absolute, glacial ice in my eyes. 4 With my deliberate encouragement, my relationship with Tristan escalated rapidly. Very soon, I moved out of the dingy studio apartment and into a luxury villa Tristan arranged for me. When I moved, one single suitcase held my entire life. The studio was too cramped, overflowing with cheap, random knick-knacks that were almost all tied to Carter. So, I left it all behind. “What’s wrong? Already missing your little dump?” Tristan’s voice pulled me back to the present. He smiled, loaded my suitcase into the trunk, and opened the passenger door for me. “Come on, I’m taking you out for a candlelight dinner. Let’s soothe that wounded little heart of yours~” When the FaceTime call from Carter came through, I wasn’t surprised in the slightest. I gave Tristan a quick wave and went up to the quiet second floor of the restaurant to answer it. “Baby, why did it take you so long to answer? Are you doing something bad behind my back?” “No, I was just eating.” I kept my face perfectly neutral. “What about you?” Carter panned his phone camera around the room, then whispered conspiratorially: “My boss took me out to this super fancy restaurant! But honestly? I don’t think their food is half as good as the homemade chicken noodle soup you make me.” I couldn’t stop a short laugh from escaping my lips. Just a few days ago, Carter had complained on VentSpace: [I absolutely despise her chicken noodle soup. When I’m sick she makes me eat it, when I’m sad she makes me eat it. I’m so sick of it. It’s like she doesn’t know how to make anything else.] But Carter didn’t know that I remembered the very first time he made me chicken noodle soup. It was the first time anyone had celebrated my birthday since my parents died in a car crash. “Baby, did you just laugh?” Carter’s heart skipped a beat for some inexplicable reason. I looked over the balcony railing. Down below, Carter was enjoying a romantic candlelight dinner with a gorgeous girl. “I just think chicken noodle soup is bland and awful,” I said softly. The moment the words left my mouth, Carter’s smiling face instantly turned forced and irritable. “Baby, I’ll bring you back a gift. Let’s talk later.” I watched him hurriedly hang up the phone. The very next second, his entire aura shifted. He picked up a brand-new, latest-season designer handbag—easily eighty thousand dollars, enough to fund ten of our imaginary weddings. He casually tossed it into the lap of the girl sitting across from him. The girl squealed in delight. She looked remarkably like the minor actress he had briefly dated years ago. Her name was Serena Vance. Everyone in her social circle knew she had a billionaire boyfriend who spoiled her rotten, elevating her to the status of a socialite. Calculating the timeline, they probably started dating three years ago. I gripped my phone tightly. The VentSpace notification icon began to flash. [I purposefully FaceTimed her to test the waters, and she actually acted totally cold to me. So weird.] Leaning against the wall, I watched Serena intimately kiss Carter on the floor below, while my fingers flew across the keyboard: “Isn’t that a good thing? It looks like you’re getting exactly what you wished for.” But to my surprise, Carter suddenly exploded. It was the first time he had spoken harshly since buying my monthly listener package. [What the hell do you know?! She is NOT allowed to cheat, and she is DEFINITELY not allowed to fall for someone else!] “Even though this is a test you meticulously orchestrated?” [So what?! Besides me, who else would even want her? Even her own parents abandoned her; they didn’t even show up for their own funerals.] [Tristan Sterling? He’s just playing with her. I doubt a guy like him is even capable of loving someone. She’s better off with me. At least I’m not a complete bastard, and I actually know how to coax her.] [Forget it. Why am I even telling you this? Get lost. Service terminated.] Ding. A text from Carter popped up. “Baby, do you like this? I’ll bring it home for you when my trip is over.” Attached was a picture of a logo-stamped keychain. It was very familiar. It was the complimentary gift tag that came attached to the $80,000 bag he had just given Serena. It turns out that when your heart breaks past a certain threshold, you really do just go numb. I didn’t reply. I walked downstairs and returned to my seat. Under Tristan’s confused gaze, I sent one final message to Carter on the VentSpace app. “Look behind you.” Carter whipped his head around violently. As our eyes locked, the color completely drained from his face.

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My Best Friend Reported My Reselling Business for Tax Evasion; After the Customs Audit, Her Store Was Shut Down First. When the agents from Customs and Border Protection knocked on my door, I was in the middle of packing a box of SK-II Facial Treatment Essence for a client. Eight people. Six in uniform, two in plain clothes holding folders. The lead agent took one look at my hundred-square-foot warehouse and frowned. “Maya Brooks? We received a report alleging that you are evading import duties and taxes on your personal shopping business. Please cooperate with our investigation.” I froze. In my three years of running this import reselling business, I hadn’t missed a single invoice or declaration. Every order’s import record, duty payment certificate, and bank statement was filed away monthly, stacked neatly into fourteen distinct binders. It took me half an hour to haul every single binder out. The lead agent flipped through a few pages, his expression shifting subtly. He glanced at me and lowered his voice. “The information in the tip-off report was incredibly detailed. It even listed your exact flight numbers for your weekly sourcing trips to the airport.” A cold shiver ran down my spine. Whoever could write a report like that had to know me inside and out. And my specific sourcing routes, supply channels, and client lists had only ever been shared with one person. My best friend of ten years, Stella Montgomery. The agents began to inventory the goods in my warehouse, documenting them piece by piece. Six cases of Japanese and Korean skincare, four cases of supplements, two cases of premium baby products. For every single item, I produced a corresponding purchase receipt, an entry declaration form, and proof of duty payment. I leaned against the wall, watching them rummage through my life. My heart was beating so fast it felt like it would leap out of my throat. But I knew my books were perfectly clean. Three years ago, when I first got into this industry, I paid $500 for a cross-border e-commerce tax compliance course. I still remember the first thing the instructor said: “As a reseller, you shouldn’t fear running out of clients. You should fear an audit your books can’t survive.” From that day on, I bought a small fireproof safe specifically to store my duty payment certificates. Every payment, every customs document—I photographed them for digital archives, and locked the hard copies in the safe. Other resellers in my circle laughed at me. “You’re not running a massive corporation, why are you being so dramatic and official?” I never bothered explaining. I just kept doing my thing. “What was the total declared value for this specific shipment?” the lead agent asked. “$12,342.60. The corresponding tax documents are in the seventh binder, under the blue tab.” He opened it, cross-referenced the numbers, and stayed silent. A younger agent next to him couldn’t help but shoot me a look. I read his expression clearly—making a mountain out of a molehill. But a federal report was a report. The protocol had to be followed. “Have you received any inventory from unknown sources within the last month?” “No. I only source and sell my own inventory. I don’t drop-ship or handle other people’s goods.” I paused. “However…” “However what?” “Last month, my best friend borrowed my corporate courier account to ship three batches of goods. She said her own account had hit its volume limit.” I unlocked my phone, pulled up the direct messages, and handed it over. “This is the conversation when she asked to borrow my account. I explicitly told her she had to generate her own labels and fill out the customs declarations herself. I didn’t handle the shipments.” The lead agent took the phone and scrutinized the messages. “What is your best friend’s name?” “Stella Montgomery.” Saying her name made my throat tighten. Ten years. High school seatmates, college roommates, and after graduation, we both fell into this reselling industry together. She ran a much bigger operation than I did. I stuck to the legal, tedious channels. My profit margins were thin, my client base small but stable. She played fast and loose. Just last month, she was flaunting a brand-new BMW X3 on her Ins feed. I had never asked questions. The agent took photos of my chat logs and spent another half hour flipping through the binders. Right before leaving, the lead agent turned back to look at me. “Maya, let me give you a heads-up. There are details in that tip-off letter that a random outsider wouldn’t know. Your exact landed costs, your profit margins, and even the exact location of your safe.” “Think about it. Who possesses that information?” After the door closed, I stood alone in the warehouse. The SK-II was still sitting on the packing table, the shipping bag unsealed. The location of my safe. I had only ever brought one person to this warehouse. The day Stella came over to help me move boxes, I had personally made her a cup of fresh-ground coffee right here. I didn’t sleep that night. I tossed and turned, desperately trying to convince myself there was a mistake. Maybe it was someone else? Maybe it was a jealous competitor? But flight numbers, landed costs, and the safe’s location—the only intersection of those three data points was Stella. At 2:00 AM, I opened her Ins profile. Her latest story was posted six hours ago: eating an omakase dinner at a high-end sushi bar, with the caption, “Treating myself after a long day of grinding.” In the photo, her makeup was flawless. Across from her sat a man, only his cuff visible. I recognized that navy blue Hugo Boss shirt. It was her boyfriend’s. I scrolled further down her feed. Three days ago: “Ladies, clearing out top-tier Japanese beauty brands! SK-II Miracle Water marked down by $60! DM me ASAP!” The accompanying photo grid showed a table completely overflowing with high-end skincare. I stared at that image and zoomed all the way in. In the bottom right corner of the fifth photo, a tiny corner of a cardboard box was visible. Pasted on that box was a label bearing my corporate courier account details. I recognized the tracking number format. It was the batch she had borrowed my account to ship last month. I put my phone down and stared at the ceiling. My mind was chaotic, but one thing suddenly became terrifyingly clear: The goods she shipped through my account and the goods I declared myself went through the exact same customs audit channel. If there was an issue with her shipment, the one who would get audited and penalized was me. This was no coincidence. At 9:00 AM the next morning, Stella called me. “Maya! I heard you got raided by Customs? What’s going on?!” Her voice was thick with surprise and concern. If I hadn’t made those discoveries last night, I would have believed her completely. “It’s no big deal. Just a routine check.” “I knew it! You’re so meticulous, how could there be an issue? Do you want me to ask around for you? I know a guy at a customs brokerage—” “No need.” “Hey, don’t just tough it out. A Customs audit is no joke. If your inventory gets seized, what about your clients? If you need, I can cover your urgent orders from my stock for now.” I gripped my phone, my nails digging hard into my palm. I had only told my mother about the audit. “Stella, how did you know I was being audited?” The line went silent for two seconds. “Ah… didn’t you post a story on Ins yesterday? Saying the warehouse was temporarily closed for shipping—” “I put that story on a Close Friends list. Only my clients could see it.” Another two seconds of silence. “Maybe… a client screenshotted it and sent it to me? I don’t really remember.” “Oh. Okay then.” I hung up the phone. My palm was slick with sweat. She was lying. And it wasn’t the first time. I opened my laptop and pulled up every record of our cooperation over the last three years—how many times she borrowed my account, which goods she handled, the declared amounts, and whether there were customs forms. Customs wasn’t the only one who needed to conduct an audit. For the next week, I did absolutely nothing on the surface. I replied to client messages as usual, and met Stella for boba tea as usual. But every night when I got home, I started organizing. Over the last three years, she had borrowed my account to ship seven batches of goods. The first four batches had records; the amounts weren’t large, the biggest being maybe $1,800. But the last three were different. Those three were shipped in a concentrated burst between last October and this January. I couldn’t find the declared amounts for those batches. Because at the time, she had told me, “I’ll fill out the customs declaration forms myself, I don’t want to trouble you with the paperwork.” Back then, I thought she was being considerate. Now, I knew she was being deliberate. Wednesday lunch. I asked her to meet me at the mall for food. She was wearing a camel-hair Max Mara coat. I recognized it—it retails for about $3,800 on the official website, and she had flaunted it on her Ins last month. “Maya, why have you lost so much weight? Is the Customs stuff crushing you?” “I’m managing. My books are clean, anyway.” “That’s a relief.” She picked up a piece of sashimi with her chopsticks. “By the way, your client, Mrs. Thornton—the one who buys three sets of Sulwhasoo every month—has she contacted you lately?” My heart sank. “How do you know that?” “She came to me last week and bought them. Said she heard you were under investigation and was too scared to get stock from you.” Stella bit her chopstick and smiled. “Don’t worry, once your situation blows over, I’ll give her back to you.” Give her back. As if my clients were property she had just borrowed. “Besides Mrs. Thornton, who else has contacted you?” “Just… a few. Some people are just terrified of being implicated, it’s normal.” She was looking down, scrolling on her phone, and didn’t see my hand trembling around my chopsticks. When I got home, I went through my client list and messaged them to confirm their status, one by one. The results turned my entire body to ice. Out of the sixty-seven stable clients I had accumulated over three years, twenty-three were gone. Nineteen of them had transitioned to Stella. It wasn’t because they were afraid of my audit. It was because Stella had proactively contacted them, saying, “I don’t think Maya is going to clear this Customs hurdle, you shouldn’t wait around. Come over to me, my prices are lower anyway.” A client named Jenna sent me a screenshot of their direct messages. The last line Stella sent her was: “Rest assured, just stick with me. She’ll never know.” I put my phone down. There was no anger, just an unspeakable, numbing chill that spread from my spine all the way to the top of my head. Ten years. A ten-year friendship was apparently worth exactly nineteen clients. No, maybe it was worth more. Maybe from the very beginning, every step of this friendship was just her maneuvering closer to my client list. I started rewinding the tape in my head. Every event that had seemed completely normal back then now had a different flavor. Freshman year of college, she said her family was struggling financially. I helped her get a side gig running errands for an import business. Junior year summer, she said she wanted to learn the reselling ropes. I gave her my entire six-month archive of Japanese pharmacy lists, trending item price sheets, and shipping company comparisons. After graduation, I took her to Tokyo three times, personally introducing her to all my supply channels. I even fronted the money for her first solo buying trip to Japan. $500. She said she’d pay me back next month, but she never did. And I never chased her for it. Later, she scaled up. She rented proper office space to use as a warehouse, hired two girls to help with packing and shipping, and incorporated her business. I was genuinely happy for her. Sometimes when we video-chatted at night, she’d be working overtime in her fancy office, backed by a literal wall of inventory shelves. Meanwhile, I’d be on the balcony of my small apartment, slapping shipping labels onto six cardboard boxes. She would say, “Maya, why are you still playing so small? Come join my company, I’ll help you scale up.” Every time, I’d smile and politely decline. I was used to doing things my way. My books were clear, and my conscience was peaceful. But while her mouth said “help me scale up,” her hands were busy poaching my clients. I drafted a timeline. Last July: I tell her Mrs. Thornton orders three sets of Sulwhasoo religiously every month. Last August: Mrs. Thornton makes her first purchase from Stella. Last September: Stella borrows my corporate courier account to ship her first batch of goods. Last October to this January: Concentrated borrowing of my account to ship three massive batches. This February: Someone files a federal report alleging I am evading taxes. The timeline was entirely too perfect. She first poached my clients to build a baseline, then used my account to funnel goods that were likely illegal, and finally delivered the kill shot with a tip-off letter. If Customs found issues with the goods shipped through my account, they would hold me accountable. If my business was destroyed by the investigation, my remaining clients would have no choice but to go to her. Three birds, one stone. I sat in front of my computer, hands resting on the keyboard, not moving for a very long time. Outside the window, the sky was dreary and grey. It was about to rain. I didn’t cry. I just felt tired. The kind of exhaustion that seeps out from the marrow of your bones. The Customs investigation continued. I was required to remain available to provide supplementary materials, but they hadn’t seized my inventory. When Agent Miller called to inform me of this, his tone was entirely flat.

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